Высота [Vysota] [English translation]

They clung to the height, as one clings to his kin.

And mortars were constantly shelling.

We all rushed together to summit this hill

As one storms buffets and train stations.

Our shouts of Hooray soon were freezing on lips

When there was a bullet to swallow.

We made to the top seven times, seven trips.

But seven retreats also followed.

Another attack is not welcomed by troops.

The earth now reminds of burnt porridge.

The eighth time we’ll take it for certain, for good.

Take back what’s our native, not foreign!

Or maybe we should walk around this damn hill?

What caused this unhealthy attachment?!

It looks like this height is now destined to be

The crossroads of paths we imagined.

• Artist:Vladimir Vysotsky