Асадов Э.А. - Белые розы
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Асадов Э.А. - Белые розы - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Сентябрь. Седьмое число -
День моего рождения,
Небо с утра занесло,
А в доме, всем тучам назло,
Вешнее настроение!
Оно над столом парит
Облаком белоснежным.
И запахом пряно-нежным
Крепче вина пьянит.
Бутоны тугие, хрустящие,
В каплях холодных рос.
Как будто ненастоящие,
Как будто бы в белой чаще
Их выдумал дед-мороз.
Какой уже год получаю
Я этот привет из роз.
И задаю вопрос:
- Кто же их, кто принес? -
Но так еще и не знаю.
Обняв, как охапку снега,
Приносит их всякий раз
Девушка в ранний час,
Словно из книги Цвейга.
Вспыхнет на миг, как пламя,
Слова смущенно-тихи:
- Спасибо вам за стихи! -
И вниз застучит каблучками.
Кто она? Где живет?
Спрашивать бесполезно!
Романтике в рамках тесно.
Где все до конца известно -
Красивое пропадет...
Три слова, короткий взгляд
Да пальцы с прохладной кожей...
Так было и год назад,
И три, и четыре тоже...
Скрывается, тает след
Таинственной доброй вестницы.
И только цветов букет
Да стук каблучков по лестнице...
September. Seventh number -
My birthday
The sky brought in the morning
And in the house, all the clouds in spite,
The worst mood!
It soars above the table
Snow White cloud.
And the smell of spicy-none
Fighter wine is drunk.
The buds are tight, crispy,
In drops of cold grew.
As if fake
As if in white more often
They were invented by grandfather-fashion.
What year I have been getting
I am this hello from roses.
And I ask a question:
- Who, who brought them? -
But I also don't know.
Hugging like an armful of snow,
Brings them every time
Girl in the early hour
As if from the book of Zweig.
It will flare up for a moment, like a flame
Words embarrassed-tikhi:
- Thank you for the poems! -
And he will stand down with heels.
Who is she? Where does it live?
It is useless to ask!
Romance in the framework of cramped.
Where everything is known to the end -
Beautiful will disappear ...
Three words, short gaze
Yes, fingers with cool skin ...
So it was a year ago,
And three and four too ...
Hiding, melting the trace
The mysterious good messenger.
And only flowers bouquet
Yes, the knock of heels up the stairs ...
My birthday
The sky brought in the morning
And in the house, all the clouds in spite,
The worst mood!
It soars above the table
Snow White cloud.
And the smell of spicy-none
Fighter wine is drunk.
The buds are tight, crispy,
In drops of cold grew.
As if fake
As if in white more often
They were invented by grandfather-fashion.
What year I have been getting
I am this hello from roses.
And I ask a question:
- Who, who brought them? -
But I also don't know.
Hugging like an armful of snow,
Brings them every time
Girl in the early hour
As if from the book of Zweig.
It will flare up for a moment, like a flame
Words embarrassed-tikhi:
- Thank you for the poems! -
And he will stand down with heels.
Who is she? Where does it live?
It is useless to ask!
Romance in the framework of cramped.
Where everything is known to the end -
Beautiful will disappear ...
Three words, short gaze
Yes, fingers with cool skin ...
So it was a year ago,
And three and four too ...
Hiding, melting the trace
The mysterious good messenger.
And only flowers bouquet
Yes, the knock of heels up the stairs ...