Now, - a guitar I have, - how it is chancy! If I never am at large - it wonít pose a problem! Slash my veins or cut my throat, - do what you would fancy, But donít break off silver strings; - I am hooked on them. In the earth I can be dug, vanish, disappear; Who would stand up here for me, plead for adolescence? In my soul theyíve wormed up - and to pieces tear; Only would they not break off my spiritual essence! The guitar they took away - together with my freedom. I was jibbing, cried: Riff-raff, cause a rude awaking, Drag me, rotters, in the mire, throw in mud or sedum, But the silver strings of mine off do not be breaking! How terrible is that! Does it mean Iím bidden Not to have a bright daylight or a moonless evening? Ruined they my very soul, took away the freedom, And today broke off the strings - killed sweet silver weeping!
© Vyacheslav Chistyakov. Translation, 2016