“The Execution of the Mountain Echo,” Vladimir Vysotsky: translation by Julie Deshtor:
Upon mountain slopes, which the daredevils consider their Mecca, their Mecca,
Where winds blow wild and jagged peaks puncture the sky, puncture the sky,
There once had resided a good-natured mountain (mountain) echo –
It used to respond to a cry, desperate human cry.
When loneliness swells in your throat and cuts off your air (your air),
And your lips let out a sigh that nobody can hear (that no one hears) –
This quiet plea for help the kind echo would pick (would pick up) with care,
Preserve, amplify and deliver it right to your peers.
Were they beast or men – high on poison and drunken on ale (on ale)?
They didn’t want anyone to hear them howl and brag (howl an brag),
And so they conspired to cripple the mountain (mountain) vale.
They tied up the echo and they silenced it with a gag.
It went on all night – the obscene bloody orgy of violence.
They stomped on the echo and yet no one heard a sound.
By morning a firing squad executed the echo in silence,
And boulders, like tears, rolled down the face of the mountain.
And boulders, like tears, rolled down the face of the mountain.
And boulders, like tears, rolled down the face of the mountain.
Copyright@Deshtor 2013
Julie Deshtor 