Vysotski
Dreaming, yellow lights at me...
(interpreted by V. Chetin)
Dreaming, yellow lights at me,
And, in a dream, I'm groaning:
Wait a bit, sleep on it,
Take councel with the morning...
But the morning is all nuts,
All the fun is over,
Either smokes on empty guts,
Or quenches a hang-over.
Eh once, and another one,
And yet many, many, many,
Many ones, and another one,
And yet many, many ones.
Pubs are green damask,
White serviettes -
Eden for paupers and buffoons,
and me, like in a clap-net.
Church is stench and shade around,
Clerks are burning incense -
No, nor the church is right,
Not the way it should be.
Eh once, and another one,
And yet many, many, many,
Many ones, and another one,
All's not the way it should be.
I am uphill, in a haste,
Lest something happen,
And uphill, there's a green alder,
And downhill, there's a cherry.
Come an ivy twine the slope,
That would be some comfort.
Eh, be there something else to add...
All's not the way it should be.
Eh once - come on, and another one -come on,
And yet many, many, many,
Many, many, ones, and another one.
All's not the way it should be.
Then I'm across the field, by a stream -
Light is blinding, godless.
And, in the open field, there's cornflowers,
And a long, long journey.
Along the road, the wood is thick,
With Baba-Yagas,
And at the end of that road,
A wooden block with pole-axes.
Somewhere, horses are tapping rhythm,
Unwillingly and smoothly,
Along the road, all's not right,
And by the end - all the more.
And neither church, nor a pub -
Nothing is held sacred.
No brothers, all's not right,
All is wrong, brothers!
Eh once, and another one,
And yet many, many many,
Many, many ones, and another one.
All is wrong, Brothers.
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There's a song by V. Vysotsky about fatal dates and figures, where he sets parallels between life span of brilliant poets of different times, of various nations. He calls Jesus a poet there - that Christ should have been crucified at 33, considering he was a poet... Esenin called himself a God's pipe. A soul is one thing, flesh is another...
As for himself, at his 37, when he wrote it, V. Vysotski cherished hope that the span of life had increased and, probably, the ends of poets had been removed for some time. He died at 42.
Come there be any mistakes in the interpretation, let me know.
Oops, typo: take counc(!)E(!)l with the morning
Никаких намеков не ищите - их нет. Просто судьба поэта и настроение песни. Пересечение судеб, удаленных по времени? Были ли Есенин, Высоцкий... мучениками? Знал ли,в конце концов, Иисус, что его за принятые муки полюбят? А ведь и он так достал плебс своими проповедями, что те кричали: распни! Одно слово - Поэт.
Высоцкий так комментировал песню "Почему Аборигены Съели Кука": Так бывает - любят и съедят...
Я не судья, чтобы выносить приговоры - ни людям, ни, тем более, временам. Другое дело вопросы...
"А мы все ставим каверзный ответ,
И не находим нужного вопроса..."
(Мой Гамлет, В. Высоцкий)
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Tags: experimental short film Vysotski Esenin Yellow lights Высоцкий Есенин Вариации Желтые огни Цыганские темы world music folk alternative pop rock unsigned classical filmmaker reel trailer
