Microphone

Discussion in 'Creative Corner' started by ibshambat, May 16, 2019.

  1. ibshambat

    ibshambat Well-Known Member

    Joined:
    Jul 2, 2015
    Messages:
    2,255
    Likes Received:
    267
    Trophy Points:
    83
    I'm in the light, open to every eye -
    I do as I do often; like an icon
    I come up to a microphone; today
    It's more like I'm approaching a cannon.

    And I will not rub against the microphone
    Yes, my voice is loathsome to any
    Yes, I know, if a lie comes on
    It will augment it surely without pity.

    Rays beneath the lamp on ribs assail me
    Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
    And from every side projectors beat
    And the heat! The heat! The heat!

    Today I rant again without control,
    But in the tone I don't risk making change -
    For if I make a turn inside the soul
    It will correct the curve with rage.

    It's thinner than a blade of knife, this beast,
    The flawless hearing, it hears lies till the iota -
    It does not care I don't fit in the beat
    But that I more completely sing the notes!

    Rays beneath the lamp on ribs assail me
    Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
    And from every side projectors beat
    And the heat! The heat! The heat!

    Upon the supple neck this microphone
    Is rolling with its snake head;
    If I get silent - it will sting
    I have to sing - till stupor, till the end.

    Don't move, don't touch, don't dare!
    I saw the sting - you are a snake, I know!
    And I am like a charmer of a snake
    Not singing, putting spell upon a cobra!

    Rays beneath the lamp on ribs assail me
    Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
    And from every side projectors beat
    And the heat! The heat! The heat!

    It wants to eat, and with a birdling's greed
    It takes the sounds out of the mouth,
    In forehead it will put nine grams of lead
    I won't raise the hands - the guitar binds them!

    Again it will not reach the end!
    What is this microphone - who will respond!
    Today it is like lamp against the face,
    But I'm not holy, and there's no light from the microphone.

    My melodies are simpler than the scales
    But barely beating from a sure tone -
    I am sickly beaten on the face
    By an immobile shade of microphone

    Rays beneath the lamp on ribs assail me
    Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
    And from every side projectors beat
    And the heat! The heat! The heat!

    By Vladimir Vysotsky
    Translated by Ilya Shambat
     

Share This Page