The meaning of the lyrics of the song "A Song of Fatal Dates and Numbers" (Pesnya o fatalnyih datah i cifrah) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Those who ended their lives tragically are the true poets,

And if in due time, so much the better:

At the age of 26, one stepped under a pistol,

Another climbed into a noose at the Angleterre.

And at 33, like Christ - he was a poet, he said:

"Thou shalt not kill!" Kill me - you'll find me everywhere, he'd say,

But - nails in his hands, so that he wouldn't create,

Wouldn't write, and wouldn't think so much.

At the age of 37, the intoxication instantly leaves me,

Even now - like a cold gust of wind:

Pushkin set up his duel for himself under this number,

And Mayakovsky put his temple to the barrel.

Let's linger on the number 37! God is cunning,

He posed the question point-blank: either-or!

Byron and Rimbaud also fell at this milestone,

But the current ones somehow slipped through.

The duel did not take place, or perhaps it was postponed,

And at 33, they crucified, but not too badly.

And at 37 - not blood, what's blood! - but gray hair

Stained the temples, but not so profusely.

"Too afraid to shoot yourselves?! Your soul has long fled to your heels!"

Patience, psychopaths and hysterics!

Poets walk on the blade of a knife,

And cut their bare souls to the bone!

The word "long-necked" at the end required three "e"s,

Shorten the poet! - the conclusion is clear,

And a knife into him! - but he is happy to hang on the edge,

Slaughtered for being dangerous!

I pity you, adherents of fatal dates and numbers,

You languish like concubines in a harem!

The lifespan has increased - and perhaps the ends

Of poets have been postponed for a time!

Моим друзьям - поэтам

Кто кончил жизнь трагически, тот - истинный поэт

А если в точный срок, так - в полной мере:

На цифре 26 один шагнул под пистолет

Другой же - в петлю слазил в "Англетере"

А в 33 Христу - он был поэт, он говорил:

"Да ни убий!" Убьешь - везде найду, мол

Но - гвозди ему в руки, чтоб чего не сотворил

Чтоб не писал и чтобы меньше думал

С меня при цифре 37 в момент слетает хмель,

Вот и сейчас - как холодом подуло:

Под эту цифру Пушкин подгадал себе дуэль

И Маяковский лег виском на дуло

Задержимся на цифре 37! Коварен Бог

Ребром вопрос поставил: или - или!

На этом рубеже легли и Байрон, и Рембо,

А нынешние - как-то проскочили

Дуэль не состоялась или - перенесена

А в 33 распяли, но - не сильно

А в 37 - не кровь, да что там кровь! - и седина

Испачкала виски не так обильно

"Слабо стреляться?! В пятки, мол, давно ушла душа!"

Терпенье, психопаты и кликуши!

Поэты ходят пятками по лезвию ножа

И режут в кровь свои босые души!

На слово "длинношеее" в конце пришлось три "е",

Укоротить поэта! - вывод ясен,

И нож в него! - но счастлив он висеть на острие

Зарезанный за то, что был опасен!

Жалею вас, приверженцы фатальных дат и цифр,

Томитесь, как наложницы в гареме!

Срок жизни увеличился - и, может быть, концы

Поэтов отодвинулись на время!

In his "Song about Fatal Dates and Numbers," Vladimir Vysotsky reflects with irony and bitterness on the fate of a poet, on the stereotypes associated with their life and death. He lists the "fatal" dates: 26, 33, 37 – often associated with the tragic deaths of poets, referring to the fates of Pushkin, Lermontov, Mayakovsky, Byron, Rimbaud.

The author mocks the belief in predestination, in "fate," which supposedly dictates an early death for poets. He uses sarcasm: "He who ended his life tragically is a true poet", "Let's dwell on the number 37! God is cunning". Vysotsky shows that poets are not victims of mysticism, but living people whose lives depend not on numbers but on many factors.

The "Song" is filled with metaphors and images: "poets walk on the blade of a knife", "cut their bare souls to the bone". Vysotsky emphasizes that creativity is a constant balancing act, a risk, an exposure of the soul.

The finale sounds bitter irony: "The lifespan has increased – and perhaps the ends / Of poets have been postponed for a while!". The author hints that in the modern world, poetry is losing its sharpness, its rebellious spirit, and poets are becoming conformists, afraid to "shorten" their lives with a careless word.