The last poem

Ice down below, ice up above - I freeze between.
Drill through the bottom, or ram through the top?
There's always hope - I'll surface in the end,
Then wait for visas, plugging at my job.
Above me, ice will break up with a bang.
I'm sweating like a ploughman and his horse.
I shall return, like those ships in the songs,
Remembering it all, even old verse.
I'm half my age - a little way past forty.
I'm living, thanks to God and you, my wife.
I have a lot to sing to the Almighty.
I have my songs to justify my life.

1980.

by Vladimir Vysotsky.

"I believe Vysotssky's fate to be perfect, complete and happy, for it is impossible to make any revisions in it. He was undoubtedly guarded by a star of his own, and he faced it with a clear conscience."

Bella Akhmadulina.

"He was the flower of our land, of our people and times, He was a flower that might not to have looked exquisite but had stunning fragrance. He stuck like a thistle in the hearts of the people who were so much in need of literature, minstrels, actors, poets."

Michail Ulyanov.