Арья Макгрейн - О любви, поэтах и любви к поэтам
текст песни

Listen. Just sit down and listen.
I do not like to say - but now I will say:
What do I have? Love that strangles strangle.
What is it in her? I can’t understand it myself.

Everything is like everyone else - both inner light, and
Butterflies in the body, and "hug the whole world" ...
I just squeeze like from a whip,
If I feel: dear to someone.
I'm ordinary. That is ... like everyone else. Okay,
I don't care, but I depend on the rest:
Someone at least a word will say to me a little coolly -
My world is destroyed, a genius inside has become quiet.

And I don’t write - I grumble about stupidity,
Like, what-so-and-da-cu-nuzhna?
Only love - well, what for the news! -
He takes and saves me all over and over again.

Okay, I saved it - I would slyly endured it,
But they say the people "Love is evil ..."
I agree with this. Who can love the poet?
Rarely anyone can. However, I was able to.

And I continue - do not cut out this feeling -
And I remember how several years ago
I thought: "People from art
Together cannot be. Their destiny is to write.
... maybe talk about high ...
How are the two - yes they can live? "
Here's what I’ll say: if creativity beats current,
So the creator is in love with that
Who helped to create.

Here's what I’ll say: not to fall in love with the poet is difficult,
Only love is perhaps even more difficult.
Why? It is impossible for the poet
See a hint where he is in order of things:

There will be a poet to read - and maybe listen, -
Only at point blank he will not understand: that's all to him.
That's why love, like a stray, strangles ...
... exactly. I still realized why!

So I ask - do not fall in love with poets at all,
Yes, and call the poet not everyone, but only worthy.
I can forever tell you about it,
Only with the number of lines the prestige is growing,
What I do not need. After all, I am not a poet once
But for the poet I am ready to write poetry
And look for rhyme, and more successful the phrase,
So that everyone will be surprised later, as the words are easy,

So that everyone admires: my words, they say, melt,
All melt and melt, like ice floes in the tongue ...

And as for the poet - the poet, I know, reads.
And he thinks that he reads not about himself.