Канцлер Ги - Раймонд VII
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Канцлер Ги - Раймонд VII - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Он сегодня дома, он сегодня один.
Он немного болен, немного устал.
Сам себе трубадур, сам себе господин.
Он коньяк с кагором зачем-то смешал.
А за окном темно, смотрит в форточку ночь:
«И с какой это радости парень напился...»
А ему, бедняге, уж ничем не помочь,
Он устал быть тем, кем сегодня родился.
Он забыл, как люди включают на кухне газ,
И чужую боль заглушил цитрамоном.
Он глядит на стены и видит родной Прованс,
Где когда-то он звался графом Раймоном..
Он вернулся на землю сквозь дни и года,
Семь столетий назад безвозвратно ушедший.
Вспоминает об этом Раймон иногда,
А друзья говорят про него – сумасшедший.
И снова битва идет для него каждый день,
Только ныне масштаб поражений неравен
От былого осталась лишь зыбкая тень –
Там Тулуза сдана, здесь завален экзамен…
И Раймон Седьмой допивает остывший чай,
И снимает морфином незримые узы.
И идет по утру он молитвы свои читать
А католический храм альбигойской Тулузы.
Возвращаясь назад, он неспешно идет,
Игнорируя огненный глаз светофора,
Ибо знает, что знамя его упадет,
И растопчут его крестоносцы Монфора.
И отбывает он вновь в летний свой гарантен,
Заблудившись в сети бесконечных тропинок,
Ищет отдыха в россыпях телеантенн,
Веря в грустную ложь разноцветных картинок.
И Раймон Седьмой печально глядит в экран,
Заполняя времени стертые лузы
И болят на погоду призраки старых ран,
Что получены им на полях под Тулузой.
He is at home today, he is one today.
He is a little sick, a little tired.
Himself a troubadour, his own Mr.
He brandy with Kororom somehow mixed.
And the window is dark, looks into the winder night:
"And what joy is the guy got drunk ..."
And he, poor fellow, no help to help
He is tired of being the one who was born today.
He forgot how people include gas in the kitchen,
And someone else's pain muted by citram.
He looks at the walls and sees his native Provence,
Where he once called the Graph Rimon ..
He returned to the ground through the days and years,
Seven centuries ago irretrievably gone.
Remembers it Ramon sometimes,
And friends tell about him - crazy.
And again the battle goes for him every day,
Only now the scale of lesions is inequal
From the past, only a spinning shadow remained -
There's Toulouse handed over, the exam is risen here ...
And Raymont Seventh dops the cooled tea,
And removes morphine invisible bonds.
And goes in the morning he prayer his read
And the Catholic Temple of Albigo Toulouse.
Returning back, he slowly goes,
Ignoring the light eye of the traffic light,
For he knows that the banner will fall,
And his Crusaders of Monfora will be melted.
And he is serving again in his summer guarantee,
Borrowing in the network of endless paths,
Looking for a rest in the placers of Telastanin,
Believing in a sad lie of multicolored pictures.
And Raymont Seventh sadly looks into the screen,
Filling time erased pool
And hurt the weather ghosts of old wounds,
What is obtained by them in the fields under Toulouse.
He is a little sick, a little tired.
Himself a troubadour, his own Mr.
He brandy with Kororom somehow mixed.
And the window is dark, looks into the winder night:
"And what joy is the guy got drunk ..."
And he, poor fellow, no help to help
He is tired of being the one who was born today.
He forgot how people include gas in the kitchen,
And someone else's pain muted by citram.
He looks at the walls and sees his native Provence,
Where he once called the Graph Rimon ..
He returned to the ground through the days and years,
Seven centuries ago irretrievably gone.
Remembers it Ramon sometimes,
And friends tell about him - crazy.
And again the battle goes for him every day,
Only now the scale of lesions is inequal
From the past, only a spinning shadow remained -
There's Toulouse handed over, the exam is risen here ...
And Raymont Seventh dops the cooled tea,
And removes morphine invisible bonds.
And goes in the morning he prayer his read
And the Catholic Temple of Albigo Toulouse.
Returning back, he slowly goes,
Ignoring the light eye of the traffic light,
For he knows that the banner will fall,
And his Crusaders of Monfora will be melted.
And he is serving again in his summer guarantee,
Borrowing in the network of endless paths,
Looking for a rest in the placers of Telastanin,
Believing in a sad lie of multicolored pictures.
And Raymont Seventh sadly looks into the screen,
Filling time erased pool
And hurt the weather ghosts of old wounds,
What is obtained by them in the fields under Toulouse.
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