by Vladimir Vysotsky
–
In the silence of mountains, where rocks are not obstacles…. obstacles….
For that winds on the steeps, where nobody climbed… nobody climbed….
There lived so merry a mountain echo… a mountain echo…
And it answered at cry, the man’s outcry…
When a lump grasps the throat… grasps the throat…
And a woe of help falls there down from steep… down from steep,
This cry the echo will pick up and quickly… pick up quickly…
Amplify it and carry it then to the people… to the people…
… But, perhaps, that there were not even people,
Who, such drunken and crazy of poisonous beverage… beverage..
In the order that tramp wouldn’t be heard there by anyone… there by anyone…
Had come to still echo in ravine by gagging…in ravine by gagging…
And this bloody fun lasted all over the night…all over the night…
And the echo was trampled, but nobody heard…
Next morning the shot echo was really quieted,
And the tears’d splashed out as the wounded rocks… as the wounded rocks…
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