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My friends are leaving my phone book for ever

My friends are leaving my phone book for ever,
The Reaper’s scythe keeps taking their souls,
The coffin lids are slamming here and there
And other voices answer my phone calls.
 
I won’t erase, however, their numbers,
Won’t toll for them the final doleful knell.
I’ll find them all, I’ll call them for a wonder
No matter they’re in Heaven or in hell.
 
As we just bantered, spending lives for nothing,
Was over our chain of days and weeks.
And now of things that we remained unspoken
Are speaking, like ellipsis, distant beeps.
 

Hooligan

Mom, calm down, he is not a hooligan.
He won't pester you on the way station.
In the war (do you remember Malakhov Kurgan?)
Such guys walked with grenades under tanks.
 
Such people built roads and bridges,
Dug, canals, mines and trenches.
Always dirty, but their souls are pure.
The tendons were strained on the neck forever.
 
Why take a revolver at once?
Why fall on knees at once?
Mayakovsky-hooligan passed away,
Esenin-hooligan passed away.
 
To prevent us from groveling for pittance,
From living, as mother, idiotically,
Shukshin - hooligan passed away,
Vysotsky - hooligan passed away.
 
We are alive, and they left us,
Having taken all our pain and wounds.
The new star is shining on the sky -
It was lit up, certainly, by hooligans.