I don’t like a fatal ending for a reason. Because I’m never getting sick of life. And I do not like any season When joyful songs of mine are not alive. I don’t like bold cynicism for fetters, I don’t trust some easy passion, Or when a stranger peeps into my letters; I find it’s quite an ugly fashion. I don’t like when there are halfway talks Or interruptions in the certain places. I don’t like when someone shoots at folks; It doesn’t matter, at the backs or faces. I hate the rumors in the form of versions, The rotten doubts and the honor’s pin. The wrong way manners make me feel aversions, Like screech of iron cutting glass therein. I don’t like at all cocksure game; I’m better off with no breaks on track! Such word as ‘honor’ is forgotten, what a shame! They honor slander now, all behind one’s back. The broken wings mean just another loss; There’s no pity in my heart, it’s clear. I do like neither weakness no brute force, And yet, for Christ, the crucified, I have a tear. I don’t like myself absorbed by fear; It hurts when innocent are beaten madly. I don’t like when someone tries to smear My soul; all the more, my spirit so badly. I don’t like arenas and manages; A million is swindled there at once. Whatever changes lie ahead by any measure, I’ll never ever like it, not a chance. Vladimir Vysotsky