The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Fate is mine until the very end." (Mne sudba do posledney chertyi) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

It's my fate — to the last line, to the cross,

To argue till I'm hoarse (and then — silence),

To persuade and prove till I'm blue in the face,

That this is not it at all, not the right one, not the right way,

That the hucksters lie about the mistakes of Christ,

That the tombstone hasn't sunk into the ground yet.

Three hundred years under the Tatars — that's a life:

Three hundred years of vanity and poverty.

But under the rule of the Tatars lived Ivan Kalita,

And he wasn't the only one who stood alone against a hundred.

[The sweat] of good intentions and the futility of uprisings,

Pugachev's rebellion, blood, and again — poverty...

Let it not be at once, let them not understand a thing at first —

I'll repeat it even in the form of a bad joke.

But the subject is not worth it, and the topic is not right:

The vanity of all vanities — it's all vanity.

Just to drink the cup — I can't run away,

Even if I break it — I still can't;

Or throw it in the brazen face of the enemy?

I'm not breaking, I'm not lying — I still can't;

On a spinning, smooth, and slippery circle,

I keep my balance, bending into an arc!

What should I do with the cup?! Break it — I can't!

I will endure — and wait for a worthy one.

I will pass it on — and there's no need to hold on to the circle,

And into the pitch darkness, and into the unclear haze.

Having entrusted the cup to a friend, I will run away!

Whether he could drink it — I will never know.

I graze in the meadow with those who have left the circle,

I don't utter a word here about the undrunk cup,

I won't tell anyone, I'll keep it to myself,

And if I speak — they'll drown me in the meadow.

I'm arguing myself hoarse, guys, for your sake!

Maybe someday, someone will light a candle

For my bare nerve, on which I cry out,

And the cheerful manner in which I joke...

Even if they promise golden brocade

Or threaten to cast a spell — I don't want it!

On a weakened nerve, I won't sound right —

I'll tighten mine, renew it, tune it up!

I'd rather go on a spree, drink, make a mess,

Everything I scribble at night — I'll burn in a haze,

I'd rather tear my head off for my song —

But I won't slide like dust on a ray of light!

...If it's my fate to drink the cup after all,

If the music with the song is not too rough,

If I suddenly prove it, even till I'm blue in the face —

I will die and say that not everything is vanity!

Мне судьба — до последней черты, до креста

Спорить до хрипоты (а за ней — немота),

Убеждать и доказывать с пеной у рта,

Что не то это вовсе, не тот и не та,

Что лабазники врут про ошибки Христа,

Что пока ещё в грунт не влежалась плита.

Триста лет под татарами — жизнь ещё та:

Маета трёхсотлетняя и нищета.

Но под властью татар жил Иван Калита,

И уж был не один, кто один — против ста.

{Пот} намерений добрых и бунтов тщета,

Пугачёвщина, кровь и опять — нищета...

Пусть не враз, пусть сперва не поймут ни черта, —

Повторю даже в образе злого шута.

Но не стоит предмет, да и тема не та:

Суета всех сует — всё равно суета.

Только чашу испить — не успеть на бегу,

Даже если разбить — всё равно не могу;

Или выплеснуть в наглую рожу врагу?

Не ломаюсь, не лгу — всё равно не могу;

На вертящемся гладком и скользком кругу

Равновесье держу, изгибаюсь в дугу!

Что же с чашею делать?! Разбить — не могу!

Потерплю — и достойного подстерегу.

Передам — и не надо держаться в кругу

И в кромешную тьму, и в неясную згу.

Другу передоверивши чашу, сбегу!

Смог ли он её выпить — узнать не смогу.

Я с сошедшими с круга пасусь на лугу,

Я о чаше невыпитой — здесь ни гугу,

Никому не скажу, при себе сберегу,

А сказать — и затопчут меня на лугу.

Я до рвоты, ребята, за вас хлопочу!

Может, кто-то когда-то поставит свечу

Мне за голый мой нерв, на котором кричу,

И весёлый манер, на котором шучу...

Даже если сулят золотую парчу

Или порчу грозят напустить — не хочу!

На ослабленном нерве я не зазвучу —

Я уж свой подтяну, подновлю, подвинчу!

Лучше я загуляю, запью, заторчу,

Всё, что ночью кропаю, — в чаду растопчу,

Лучше голову песне своей откручу —

Но не буду скользить, словно пыль по лучу!

...Если всё-таки чашу испить мне судьба,

Если музыка с песней не слишком груба,

Если вдруг докажу, даже с пеной у рта, —

Я умру и скажу, что не всё суета!

In the poem "Fate is Mine Until the Final Line," Vladimir Vysotsky contemplates the meaning of life, purpose, and the struggle for truth. The lyrical hero is determined to argue "until his voice is hoarse," to "convince and prove" that the world is not what the "hucksters" are trying to portray. He speaks of the difficult fate of the people who survived "three hundred years under the Tatars," the futility of uprisings, and that "vanity of vanities — all is vanity."

The central image is the "cup" that the hero must drink. This is a metaphor for fate, life's journey, perhaps suffering and trials. The hero cannot break the cup, splash it out, or run away from it. He chooses to accept his fate but pass it on to the next generation ("friend"), hoping they can drink from it.

Despite the burden, the hero does not lose his presence of mind. He jokes, is ironic about himself, talks about a "cheerful manner," but behind this lies a "bare nerve," pain for injustice, and a desire to change the world.

In the final lines of the poem, the hero admits the possibility that he will be able to "prove" his truth, and then his death will not be in vain. He is willing to pay any price for the opportunity to leave his mark on the world and be heard.