And yet another translation of V. Vysotsky.
Just briefly, Iíll explain myself in verse,
To tell you everything-- I do not have the might.
I was conceived, the proper way, in curse, --
In sweat and tenseness of the wedding night.
I knew, when separating from the earth. ó
The higher, the more harsh we got.
I walked towards the throne that I deserved
And acted like an heir in line of blood.
I knew that everything would be just as I ruled.
And I was never at a loss and never down.
My mates of sword and those I knew from school
Were loyal, like their fathers to the crown.
I never gave my speech a bit of thought
Into the wind, I threw my words without essence--
Like to a leader, trust to me was brought
By noble and high-ranking adolescents.
We made the guards feel restless in the night,
From us, like from a pox, the time grew worse.
I slept on leather; ate right off the knife--
With sirrups disciplined my wild, unruly horse.
ďLong live the King!Ē Iíd hear my people cry
And since my birth, Iíve worn that noble mark.
Around chased harnesses, I would get high,
Abuse of books and words Iíd to disregard
Iíd smile with my lips while being pestered.
My mystic stare, which used to burn in fury,
Iíve learned to hide, raised by a happy jester.
And now the jesterís dead: ďAmen!Ē Poor Yurik.
And yet I disapproved of any sharingó
Of gains, rewards and privileges one has.
Then suddenly about life Iíve started caring
And rode around the sprouts of grass,
And I forgot the hunterís thrill and passion,
Began to hate the grayhounds and the steeds.
And sped my horse away from all the action,
I whipped the huntsmen to support my creed.
I watched our games with every single night
Turn more and more into disgrace of time
And by the flowing rivers, I would hide
And wash myself from staining filth and slime
I started to perceive, while growing duller,
I even missed my householdís affair.
Towards the people of this era I grew colder,
Iíve hid myself in books and lost all care.
My brain, for wisdom, greedy like a spider,
Grasped everything: and immobility and motion.
But what is wit when one cannot apply it?
When all around thereís an opposing notion?
With friends I torn the tread and I was free--
The thread of Ariadne was but a scheme.
I pondered on the words ďto be or not to be,Ē
A problem with no answer as it seemed.
The sea of grief was splashing in diffusion
We stood against it; we were sieving grain,
And filtering the blurry resolution
To a dilemma, which appeared inane.
I heard my fatherís call when clamor stopped,
Walked forth, -- while lurking doubts gloomed.
The weight of heavy thoughts would pull me up
And wings of flesh would drag me to my tomb.
Into a weak alloy, Iíve melted with each day,
And barely cool, itís started to diffuse.
Like others, Iíve spilled blood and just like they
I was incapable my vengeance to refuse.
The rising before death -- was my collapse!
Ophilia! My dear, I wonít decay...
With killing, I have made myself, perhaps,
An equal to one with whom I lay.
Iím Hamlet, I despised injustice and abuse!
I did not give a damn about the crown!
But in their eyes, I hungered fame and Iím acused
Of sending rivals of the throne into the ground.
The striking splash appears as an illusion.
And death through birth emerges from a side
And weíre still asking a complex solution
Not finding the question to abide.
[This message has been edited by Master (edited 02-12-2000).]