Speaking In Tongues
Guided by Voices

Vladimir Vysotsky

Translated by Dmitry Yefremov





Kissing the Banner…


Field-marshal kissed the banner's silk of dust,
And, spitting out his dentures in despair,
He called us, «You, my sons, you're born for cast,
Disdain the death, my cutthroats, win, you dare!»


And, proud with our colours, crumpled ones,
Inspired by his speech of clever passion,
Some soldiers came into the very fronts
They pushed away the others in their hunts
And falled by grape-shots in their first succession.


Those cunning ones and those who didn't rave
And didn't want to pay, who had their reason,
They've got into the last ranks to be saved,
But failed -- by comrades they were kindly strafed
In backs, for their escape and shameful treason.


Hard days today, no boots for some of us,
But, after all, we'll celebrate the trophies
The brilliant corps, the guys of highest class --
all cutthroats in a military office!


Another ones, who've been inside the worst,
While tried both back and front to save and care
They neither went attacking, neither first,
Nor being the last, they fought as they were thirst,
For very «golden mean», for staying there.


They'll later give us memories, as they wont,
They'll die in verbs, with our past they'll fiddle,
Those, who's not stepping out to confront,
Who also doesn't escape in latest front
And proud for surviving in the middle.


The pipe is silent, brasses are subside
And voice on iron lowers down the roads
The brilliant corps is crushed, so brave and bright,
And were survived the very few cutthroats.


But none of them have stained their banner's cry --
Field-marshal's breathe was happy, calm and pure --
For them, in children's eyes to justify,
He said: «It's war, somebody used to die,
Somebody -- to survive, the fact is sure!»


Their stars are duller than one hero's flash,
They'll surely live till death, that won't be riddle,
They, who conceal behind the brave man's flesh
While leaving rears for a coward's lash
Those «moderates» of comfortable middle.


The trampled colors mark defeated cause
Field-marshal's batons, dentures and trophies
There was a corps! -- or if it really was? --
lost cutthroats in a military office!

Öåëóÿ çíàìÿ…



Öåëóÿ çíàìÿ, çàïûëåííûé øåëê,
È âûïëþíóâ â îò÷àÿíüå ïðîòåçû,
Ôåëüäìàðøàë çâàë: «Âïåðåä, ìîé ñëàâíûé ïîëê!
Ïðåçðåéòå ñìåðòü, ìîè ãîëîâîðåçû!»


È, ñìÿòûìè çíàìåíàìè ãîðäû,
Âîçáóæäåíû òàëàíòëèâîþ ðå÷üþ, --
Îíè ñòðåìèëèñü â ïåðâûå ðÿäû --
Ðàñòàëêèâàÿ ñïèíû è çàäû,
È ïåðâûìè ëîæèëèñü ïîä êàðòå÷üþ.


Õèòðåö -- è òîò, êîòîðûé íå áûë ñìåë, --
Íå ïîæåëàâ ïëàòèòü òàêóþ öåíó,
Ïîëç â çàäíèé ðÿä -- íî òàì íå óöåëåë:
Åãî ñâîè æå áðàëè íà ïðèöåë --
È â ñïèíó óáèâàëè çà èçìåíó.


Ñåãîäíÿ êàæäûé òðåòèé -- áåç ñàïîã,
Íî ïîñëå áèòâû -- çàæèâóò, êàê Êðåçû, --
Ïðåêðàñíûé ïîëê, íàäåæíûé, âåðíûé ïîëê --
Îòáîðíûå â ïîëêó ãîëîâîðåçû!


À òðåòüè è ñðåäü áèòâû è áåäû
Ñòàðàÿñü ñîõðàíèòü è ãðóäü è ñïèíó, --
Íå âûõîäÿ íè â ïåðâûå ðÿäû,
Íè â çàäíèå, -- íî êàê èç-çà åäû,
Äðàëèñü çà çîëîòóþ ñåðåäèíó.


Îíè íàïèøóò òîëñòûå òðóäû
È áóäóò ãèáíóòü â ðàìàõ, íà êàðòèíå, --
Òå, ÷òî íå âûøëè â ïåðâûå ðÿäû,
Íî íå áûëè è ñçàäè -- è ãîðäû,
×òî ÷åñòíî ïðîçÿáàëè â ñåðåäèíå.


Óæå òðóáà÷ áåç ïî÷åñòåé óìîëê,
Íå ñëûøíî ìåäè, òèøå çâîí æåëåçà, --
Ðàçáèò è ñìÿò íàäåæíûé, âåðíûé ïîëê,
 êîòîðîì ñïëîøü îäíè ãîëîâîðåçû.


Íî íåò, èì ÷åñòü çíàìåí íå çàïÿòíàòü,
Äûøàë ôåëüäìàðøàë âåñåëî è ðîâíî, --
×òîá èõ â ãëàçàõ ïîòîìêîâ îïðàâäàòü,
Îí ìîëâèë: «Êòî-òî äîëæåí óìèðàòü --
À êòî-òî äîëæåí âûæèòü, -- áåçóñëîâíî!»


Ïóñòü íåò çâåçäû òóñêëåå, ÷åì ó íèõ, --
Óâåðåííî äîòÿíóò äî êîí÷èíû --
Ñêðûâàÿñü çà îò÷àÿííûõ è çëûõ
Ïîñëåäíèé ðÿä îñòàâèâ äëÿ äðóãèõ --
Óìåðåííûå ëþäè ñåðåäèíû.


 ãðÿçü âòîïòàíû çíàìåíà, ñìÿòûé øåëê,
Ôåëüäìàðøàëüñêèå æåçëû è ïðîòåçû.
Àõ, ñëàâíûé ïîëê!.. Äà áûë ëè ñëàâíûé ïîëê,
 êîòîðîì ñïëîøü îäíè ãîëîâîðåçû?!