I am awake, yet dream prophetic verses.
I want to sleep, and swallow pills galore.
No matter - I have taken bitter pills before:
Organisations, institutions, persons -
They've all declared on me a total war
For me disturbing peace and quit, and
For my hoarse singing filling this whole land,
For my disrepute and for my renown;
For being impotent to keep me down;
For my old ballads that come flittering
On short-wave radio from abroad,
With notices attached - I think, Quit fitting -
"Unauthored by author…" Oh, my God!
What else? It may well be my foreign wife.
I should have married Soviet - done my duty.
How dare I choose a foreign way of life?
And, above all, how dare I to survive?
They hate me for my songs about the years
When we beat bloody hell out of the fritzes,
For writing songs of dogfights and of blitzes,
Not having fought, or being anywhere near.
They yell that I have pinched the moon, and will
Find something else again, as valuable, to steal.
So dirty lies keep chasing one another.
With all these blots, I'll soon be blotto, brother!
No, I won't drink myself to death - I will
Tear up or just cross off my testament and will,
And cross myself - God, bear with this offender! -
And go on writing songs, with all my heart and skill, -
And there'll be those whom in my songs I'll damn
But also those to whom I'll home age render,
All those who wrote to me that I dare not surrender.
And though my cup be bitter, I'll be true to them.
by Vladimir Vysotsky.
Before 1978 year.