Анатолий Шенберг - Мой верный Санчо Панса
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Анатолий Шенберг - Мой верный Санчо Панса - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Мой верный Санчо Панса, не жди, не верь, не плачь!
Бесчинствует над нами безвременья палач.
Ни совести, ни чести, ни крови, ни клинка,
Ни пламени, ни искры, подаренной векам!
Уходят Дон Кихоты расстроенных гитар.
Не держат новобранцы ни Слово, ни удар.
Пересчитать по пальцам оставшихся в строю,
Что песни Дон Кихотов по прежнему поют.
Им было не до шуток на мельничных крестах,
Где каждый миг писался как с чистого листа.
И век их был недолог, и раны глубоки,
Но их клинки звенели до гробовой доски.
Удел привыкших драться и горек и нелеп
К чему теперь стараться за ненасущный хлеб?!
Не оттого ль химеры опутали умы,
Что мы с тобой и сыты, и слепы, и немы!
Мой верный Санчо Панса, седая голова,
Иные нынче ветры, вращают жернова.
Эпоха равнодушно от нас уходит вскачь…
Мой верный Санчо Панса, не жди, не верь, не плачь!
My faithful Sancho Panza, don't wait, don't believe, don't cry!
The executioner is rampaging over us without time.
No conscience, no honor, no blood, no blade,
No flame, no spark given to the ages!
Don Quixotes of detuned guitars leave.
Recruits do not hold either the Word or the blow.
Count on the fingers of those remaining in the ranks,
That Don Quixote songs are still being sung.
They had no time for jokes on mill crosses,
Where every moment was written as if from scratch.
And their age was short, and the wounds are deep,
But their blades rang to the grave.
The destiny of those accustomed to fight is both bitter and ridiculous
Why try now for non-daily bread?!
Isn't that why chimeras entangled minds,
That you and I are both full, and blind, and dumb!
My faithful Sancho Panza, gray head,
Other winds now, rotate the millstones.
The era indifferently leaves us at a gallop ...
My faithful Sancho Panza, don't wait, don't believe, don't cry!
The executioner is rampaging over us without time.
No conscience, no honor, no blood, no blade,
No flame, no spark given to the ages!
Don Quixotes of detuned guitars leave.
Recruits do not hold either the Word or the blow.
Count on the fingers of those remaining in the ranks,
That Don Quixote songs are still being sung.
They had no time for jokes on mill crosses,
Where every moment was written as if from scratch.
And their age was short, and the wounds are deep,
But their blades rang to the grave.
The destiny of those accustomed to fight is both bitter and ridiculous
Why try now for non-daily bread?!
Isn't that why chimeras entangled minds,
That you and I are both full, and blind, and dumb!
My faithful Sancho Panza, gray head,
Other winds now, rotate the millstones.
The era indifferently leaves us at a gallop ...
My faithful Sancho Panza, don't wait, don't believe, don't cry!
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