In Memory of Vladimir Vysotsky, Russian poet and bard
I'm beating strings of my guitar with nerves,
they are dependent always on my fashion
for those who want to slake their thirst
I'm pouring in a goblet sounds of passion.
Strings seventh, sixth, the rest are gonna flee,
given a start by bard's hands switching,
obeyed the words they nurse revenge on me -
to put out of the tune to awaken souls bewitched.
I shout choked with the fullness in my heart,
the strings are gonna break the beat.
In gold of them there's feeling of my blood,
so my guitar is crying in the heat.
The string here is tearing to the ground,
but still I'm beating all the rest with energy
and all the crowd's becoming drunk of sound,
the glory beats as did it savagery.