By the edge, near the precipice, at the very limit,
I am beating at my horses with my arm, a whiplash in it.
I'm not getting enough air - drinking wind, the fog imbibing,
And I scent with deadly rapture: I am dying, I am dying!
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Автор: admin
Unfinished Flight Vladimir Vysotsky’s Translations by I.Shambat
Someone saw the fruit, that could not get ripe
They shook the trunk - it fell, just so...
Here's the song of him who did not finish his song
And that he had a voice - he did not know.
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Mountain Echo Vladimir Vysotsky’s Translations by I.Shambat
In the quiet valley where rocks do not stand in the way of the windstorm
In such places that no one got there or will get again
There joyfully lived a happy mountain echo
It answered the cry of mankind - yes it answered the cry of the man.
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White Waltz Vladimir Vysotsky’s Translations by I.Shambat
O what a ball! Intensity of movement, nerves and sound!
The hearts were beating in three beats and not in twain.
And ladies were inviting gentlemen
To a traditional white waltz - and took the breath away.
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The Tightrope Walker (Translated by Eugenia Weinstein, Aug. ’02)
He could neither for rank nor for height hope...
Not for fame and not for payment
In his odd style, without a swerve
All through life he's been walking a tightrope,
Not the pavement, not the pavement -
A tightrope strained like a nerve.
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