The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Hunting from Helicopters, or Where Are You, Wolves?" (Ohota s vertolyotov, ili Gde vyi, volki) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Like a razor, dawn slashed at our eyes,

Triggers clicked open like a magical "sesame,"

Appeared the shooters, light as a feather's sway -

And dragonflies took flight from the rotting river's way,

And the fun began - with both barrels, both barrels ablaze!

You dropped to your bellies, concealed your fangs' bite.

Even the one, even the one who'd dive beneath flags,

Sensed the wolf pits with his paws' soft pads;

The one even a bullet couldn't outrun in fright -

Also rose in fear, then lay down, strength in flight.

That life might smile upon wolves - unheard-of decree,

We love her in vain, we, the ones true of heart.

But death - a beautiful, wide grin has she,

And healthy, strong teeth to tear us apart.

Let us smile then, a wolf's grin for our foe -

The hounds haven't lapped up our blood yet, not quite!

But - on the snow tattooed with crimson flow

Our inscription: we are no longer wolves in this fight!

We crawled, tails tucked like dogs in retreat,

Snouts raised in wonder at the heavens we meet:

Either retribution poured down from above,

Or the world's end, our minds in a disarrayed shove,

As they struck us head-on, these ironclad doves.

We soaked in blood 'neath the leaden downpour's sting -

And accepted our fate, knowing escape we couldn't wring!

With hot bellies, we melted the snow's cold embrace.

This massacre, not God's design, but man's disgrace:

For those who fly - a volley, for those who race - a chase...

Pack of hounds, don't compare yourself to my kin,

In a fair fight, fortune favors our stride.

Wolves we are - good is our wolfish life's din,

Dogs you are - and a dog's death will betide!

Let us smile then, a wolf's grin for our foe,

To silence the rumors, cut them to the core.

But - on the snow tattooed with crimson flow,

Our inscription: we are no longer wolves, that's for sure!

To the forest - where I can save at least a few!

To the forest, wolves - harder to kill on the move!

Carry your legs, save the pups, don't delay!

I dart before the half-drunk shooters' disarray,

And summon the lost souls of wolves astray.

Those alive lie hidden on that distant shore.

What can I do alone? Nothing anymore!

My eyes have failed, my senses grown dull and weak...

Where are you, wolves, creatures of the forest deep?

Where are you, my yellow-eyed brethren, asleep?

...I live, but now I'm surrounded by a breed

Of beasts who never knew a wolf's call or creed -

They are dogs, our distant kin, it's true,

We once considered them our prey, me and you.

I smile a wolf's grin at my enemy's face,

Exposing the rotten shards of disgrace.

But - on the snow tattooed with crimson flow,

Our inscription: we are no longer wolves, you should know!

Словно бритва, рассвет полоснул по глазам,

Отворились курки, как волшебный сезам,

Появились стрелки, на помине легки,-

И взлетели стрекозы с протухшей реки,

И потеха пошла - в две руки, в две руки!

Вы легли на живот и убрали клыки.

Даже тот, даже тот, кто нырял под флажки,

Чуял волчие ямы подушками лап;

Тот, кого даже пуля догнать не могла б,-

Тоже в страхе взопрел и прилег - и ослаб.

Чтобы жизнь улыбалась волкам - не слыхал,-

Зря мы любим ее, однолюбы.

Вот у смерти - красивый широкий оскал

И здоровые, крепкие зубы.

Улыбнемся же волчей ухмылкой врагу -

Псам еще не намылены холки!

Но - на татуированном кровью снегу

Наша роспись: мы больше не волки!

Мы ползли, по-собачьи хвосты подобрав,

К небесам удивленные морды задрав:

Либо с неба возмездье на нас пролилось,

Либо света конец - и в мозгах перекос,-

Только били нас в рост из железных стрекоз.

Кровью вымокли мы под свинцовым дождем -

И смирились, решив: все равно не уйдем!

Животами горячими плавили снег.

Эту бойню затеял не Бог - человек:

Улетающим - влет, убегающим - в бег...

Свора псов, ты со стаей моей не вяжись,

В равной сваре - за нами удача.

Волки мы - хороша наша волчая жизнь,

Вы собаки - и смерть вам собачья!

Улыбнемся же волчей ухмылкой врагу,

Чтобы в корне пресечь кривотолки.

Но - на татуированном кровью снегу

Наша роспись: мы больше не волки!

К лесу - там хоть немногих из вас сберегу!

К лесу, волки,- труднее убить на бегу!

Уносите же ноги, спасайте щенков!

Я мечусь на глазах полупьяных стрелков

И скликаю заблудшие души волков.

Те, кто жив, затаились на том берегу.

Что могу я один? Ничего не могу!

Отказали глаза, притупилось чутье...

Где вы, волки, былое лесное зверье,

Где же ты, желтоглазое племя мое?!

...Я живу, но теперь окружают меня

Звери, волчих не знавшие кличей,-

Это псы, отдаленная наша родня,

Мы их раньше считали добычей.

Улыбаюсь я волчей ухмылкой врагу,

Обнажаю гнилые осколки.

Но - на татуированном кровью снегу

Наша роспись: мы больше не волки!

Vladimir Vysotsky's poem "Hunting from Helicopters, or Where Are You, Wolves?" tells a tragic story of a wolf pack that falls victim to a brutal aerial hunt. The lyrical hero, the pack leader, narrates the events with bitterness and pain, describing the unequal battle against "iron dragonflies" - helicopters.

From the very first lines, an atmosphere of horror and doom is created: "Like a razor, dawn slashed across the eyes... Hunters appeared, light as a feather...". Caught off guard, the wolves stand no chance of survival. Even the strongest and fastest are doomed: "Even the one, whom even a bullet couldn't catch, - Cowered in fear, lay down - and weakened."

The author draws a parallel between wolves and humans, using the metaphor of a "wolfish grin." This grin is a symbol of courage and defiance in the face of death. Despite their fear, the wolves do not give up without a fight; they "smile" at their tormentors: "Let us smile a wolfish grin at the enemy - The hounds haven't been washed yet!"

The snow, "tattooed with blood," becomes a symbol of the tragedy that unfolded in the forest. The final lines of the poem are filled with despair and hopelessness. The leader, who miraculously survived the massacre, tries to gather the remnants of the pack, but his call is lost in the icy silence: "Where are you, wolves, the former beasts of the forest, Where are you, my yellow-eyed tribe?!"

Surrounded by "beasts that haven't known the calls of wolves," domesticated dogs, the leader realizes that the old world is gone. The wolves, once free and proud predators, have become hunted prey, doomed to extermination: "But - on the snow tattooed with blood, Our signature: we are no longer wolves!"