К.Ривель - Снова северный ветер
текст песни

The soul has worn out like an old Montmartre,
And also, in fact - old.
And winter Paris, like a gray clican,
That I did not hang out in the morning ...

Again the north wind with the rain,
Like a certain cocktail of winter.
Dark gray hung an eye,
And he absorbs fireplaces.
Branches of bare trees froze,
The fog is sleeping on a raw pavement ...
Old mills red wings -
Wet cross over the Parisian winter!

Among the stairs and old houses,
That closed from the cold of the shutters
At the sites of dog courtyards,
Where the ancient stones are cold, -
I don't see, I don't feel the city -
He is below, well, we, we are ...
And soar the dome of the Sacre-Kero,
Like the phantoms of the Parisian winter.

I went down to the old woman Pigal,
For which a hundred years is not a question.
On the homes of the rain veil ...
Coffee? Whiskey? Cognac? Calvados?
You have not yet faded the nose,
Having ordered a croissant and broth ...
This in the evening is required by guests
"Napoleon" or "House of Perignon" ...

ORVOVAR, and See you, Madame!
We warmed ourselves in a cafe, let it be a little.
I'm walking on the bomb boulevard, Blanche,
Without leaving the native threshold.
Lights above my head
In a halo made of wet light ...
Just a pity, I came up with all this,
For he was not in Paris in winter ...
In order to breathe the soul
In what you believe, just enough
Hard about ten years- a little bit! -
To love even winter Paris.

September 26-27, 2006