Found this old translation of mine of a song by the great Russian bard, Vladimir Vysotsky:
In the dream come yellow lights,
in the dream, I yell till I'm hoarse:
"Hold on! Hold on! It won't seem so bad
once the night has run its course."
Even then, though, nothing seems right:
where is the joy and the laughter?
Either you smoke before breakfast is done
or you drink on the morning after.
In the tavern: green bottles of vodka,
white napkins that have been there an age:
a heaven for jokers and scroungers,
though I feel like a bird in a cage.
In the church, there's a stink: the deacons
are burning incense in the half-light.
No, even in church nothing seems right,
nothing seems right, it's not right.
So I rush before anything happens
up a mountain, in full retreat.
At the top of the mountain an alder stands
and below it, a cherry tree.
If only some ivy had covered the slope
perhaps it would ease my plight;
it's odd, but something is missing…
no, nothing seems right, it's not right.
Then I'm in a field by a riverbank—
light as hell, but of God, not a sign.
In the untouched field of cornflowers
a long road beckons to the horizon.
And along the road is a forest,
it's dense, full of witches and hags,
and there at the end of the road that's long
is a chopping block and an axe.
Somewhere horses are dancing to a beat—
unwillingly, but not without grace.
On the road, nothing seems right—
at the end, it's even more the case.
And not in the church, nor the tavern
is there anything good or divine.
Oh no, it's just not right, my friends,
it's not right, oh friends of mine.
