Battle Ballad (Translation, Visotsky)

Among melted down candles, devoted to prayer,
among old wartime trophies and bonfires for peace,
lived the children of books having barely a care
and bemoaned as a crisis each minor caprice.

Children often lament their existence and state,
and our fights were well spent, scrapes oft leading to hate.
But our moms on the whole, mended us and our clothes
while we swallowed those scrolls, getting drunk on each dose.

Hair fell loosely and stuck to the sweatiest brows
and the intricate phrases would catch in our breath.
Heads grew dizzy from battle, and warrior vows,
spun them further from pages as yellow as death.

As we went on the prowl, our pretend live or die
and confused a loud howl for a stiff battle cry.
What's the point of an order, the point of attack
and a border that's crossed by a chariot's track.

Cauldrons, soon boiling over with squabbles and feuds
ample meal for a hungry, voracious young mind.
For the role of the cowardly, traitorous broods
we put up our young enemies, they did in kind.

We would not lose the trail of the villain's next move
Good shall always prevail, maidens shall get the proof
of our undying love, and our friends put at ease
We're are heroes, and heroes can do as they please.

Sadly, dream worlds can't offer escape without end.
Idle play time runs out. World intrudes with real pain.
Can you open the fists of the dead? In their hand
there's a weapon, make sure they've not struggled in vain.

Try it on, you now own someone's sword, it's still warm
Put your war armor on, and ride into the storm.
Are you easily rattled, how will you behave
when you taste a real battle, a hero, or knave?

When a friend falls besides you, his wounds are too much
and you wail at the loss, it's a risk you both knew,
and you feel his raw skin and the pain of his touch,
and you can't comprehend, why it's him, and not you.

Now you do understand, now you've witnessed the cull
The helm's visor at hand, it is Death's smiling skull
The rough lines in the faces of evil and lies
Left behind, shallow graves, cracking ravens, and flies.

If you never ate meat off the edge of a knife
and you fold your hands, neat, and say, that's not my life,
if you've not joined the struggle against the unjust
you have not played your part, have not done as you must.

If you've cut your way through with your father's old sword,
if your tears stain your face, you don't care how it looks.
If you've known heat of battle and its just reward
Then it's likely that you've finished all the right books.

Author notes: https://www.culture.ru/poems/19515/ballada-o-borbe