Domes [fragments]
by Vladimir Vysockiĭ
transl. by Ryszard P. Kostecki
(using an earlier translation by Il’ya B. Shambat)
I stand, as in front of an eternal mystery,
In front of a great and fairy-tale land,
In front of a salty and bitter, sour-sweet land,
Blue, spring-water, rye-bearing.
Squelching rusty and fat dirt
The horses sink up to the stirrups
But they drag me through dreamy country
That has soured and bloated from sleep.
(...)
The soul, beaten by defeats and losses, –
The soul, worn out by the rapids, –
If the scrap has been worn out till blood,
– I will mend with the golden patches,
For the Lord to notice it more often.
1975
translated VII.2018