Алексей Воробьёв - Дневник Романтика
текст песни

I write this diary to you,
Flinging wide the doors to my heart;
Lost amidst the surging crowd,
I found warmth in my solitude.
My rebellious soul lies sleeping,
Waiting for the dusk, the night;
Softly, to the ebony keys,
It hums a melody of love.
Yet the keys remain unhearing—
Hammers strike against the strings;
Time breathes down upon my neck,
Dictating verses unto me.
It waits until my diary ends—
It finds it fascinating to read
Just how beautifully and wickedly
One learns to cease suffering.

My life is a house of paper,
Where the lights of burlesque burn bright;
I sketch a portrait out in charcoal—
One more vivid than any fresco.
A heretic within the Faith,
A descendant of the pagans;
I am a usurer of talent,
A lover of pure genius.
Rumors swirl about my name,
Spread by those who craved my love;
Yet a common, sullied strumpet
Holds more honor than these ladies.
I keep my heart upon a chain,
Lest I be tempted to forgive again;
I write my verses all of love,
That I may give it out to all.
Love, nowadays, is *mauvais ton*—
Worth no more than a candy wrapper;
Bound up tight in bandages—
My Diary of a Romantic.