Михаил Лучко - Мой Питер
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Михаил Лучко - Мой Питер - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Пара дней всего, несколько минут, миг один, и вот – прожита зима…
Пережита ночь, на прощание с крыш оборвалась снега бахрома…
Тонет тротуар, шины булькают, улицы штормит – то не сон, не явь…
Плачет светофор, пешеход – бултых, остановлен бег – дальше только вплавь…
И тогда нырнуть, камнем замереть, вынырнуть и вновь погрузиться в хлябь,
Как тяжелые невские мосты, что глядят века на теченья рябь.
По островам снежным драже
Сыплет небесный кондитер.
То – не зима, то в неглиже
Так просыпается Питер.
Холодно рукам, в кулаки дышу, и в перчатках лед, и в карманах снег,
Чудится везде, за любым углом, черная вода ленинградских рек.
Завтра гололед поплывет опять, Моцарта капель запорошит Бах…
Все-таки весна – штука странная в городе дождей, зарево во льдах,
Может быть, она не решается выплеснуть себя, разгуляться вдрызг,
Глупость сотворить, опозориться, голову терять на свой страх и риск.
Нет, то – не страх, просто кругом
Правит художник и лидер.
Все времена в царстве своем
Осенью выкрасил Питер.
Город – властелин божьей милостью, не допустит он критики извне,
Не подарит он легкой почести, не влететь в него на лихом коне,
Перебьет борцов за признание и размоет ливнем следы борьбы.
Избранность свою кто доказывал – регулярно здесь расшибали лбы.
Но не избежать этих берегов племени бродяг в поисках мечты
И не ощутить при падении гибельней, чем здесь, мертвой пустоты.
Свить облик твой хватит ли слов,
Цифр, иероглифов, литер.
С ног ли собьешь, отнимешь кров,
Но не отталкивай Питер!
A couple of days, just few minutes, the moment of the one, and now - lived winter...
Experienced night, in parting from the roofs of the broken snow fringe...
Drowning the sidewalk, bus булькают, the streets by storm - it is not a dream, not a reality...
Crying traffic lights, pedestrian - plop, stopped running away only by swimming...
And then dive, stone sink, up and re-immersed in the mud,
As heavy Neva bridges that look century on for the ripples.
On the Islands of snow pills
Falling heavenly confectioner.
It is not winter, that in negligee
So Peter wakes up.
Cold hands into fists breathe, and the gloves on ice, and in the pockets of snow,
Fancy everywhere, at any angle, the black water of the rivers.
Tomorrow ice float again, Mozart drops запорошит Bach...
Still, spring - a strange thing in the city of rains, the glow from the fire in the ice,
May be, she is not resolved to throw himself, to clear up dead,
Stupidity create, disgrace myself, head lose at your own risk.
No, it is not fear, just circle
Ruled by the artist and the leader.
All times in his Kingdom
In the autumn of painting Peter.
City - the Lord of the grace of God, will not allow it criticism from the outside,
Do not give it a light honors, not to fly to it on a spirited horse,
Kill fighters for the recognition and the rain washed away the signs of a struggle.
Election of his who proved regularly here расшибали foreheads.
But don't avoid the shores of the tribe of vagrants in search of a dream
And not feel the fall of гибельней than here, dead emptiness.
Make the appearance of thy enough of words,
Numbers, characters, character.
With the feet of whether dismissed, take shelter,
But do not reject the Peter!
Пережита ночь, на прощание с крыш оборвалась снега бахрома…
Тонет тротуар, шины булькают, улицы штормит – то не сон, не явь…
Плачет светофор, пешеход – бултых, остановлен бег – дальше только вплавь…
И тогда нырнуть, камнем замереть, вынырнуть и вновь погрузиться в хлябь,
Как тяжелые невские мосты, что глядят века на теченья рябь.
По островам снежным драже
Сыплет небесный кондитер.
То – не зима, то в неглиже
Так просыпается Питер.
Холодно рукам, в кулаки дышу, и в перчатках лед, и в карманах снег,
Чудится везде, за любым углом, черная вода ленинградских рек.
Завтра гололед поплывет опять, Моцарта капель запорошит Бах…
Все-таки весна – штука странная в городе дождей, зарево во льдах,
Может быть, она не решается выплеснуть себя, разгуляться вдрызг,
Глупость сотворить, опозориться, голову терять на свой страх и риск.
Нет, то – не страх, просто кругом
Правит художник и лидер.
Все времена в царстве своем
Осенью выкрасил Питер.
Город – властелин божьей милостью, не допустит он критики извне,
Не подарит он легкой почести, не влететь в него на лихом коне,
Перебьет борцов за признание и размоет ливнем следы борьбы.
Избранность свою кто доказывал – регулярно здесь расшибали лбы.
Но не избежать этих берегов племени бродяг в поисках мечты
И не ощутить при падении гибельней, чем здесь, мертвой пустоты.
Свить облик твой хватит ли слов,
Цифр, иероглифов, литер.
С ног ли собьешь, отнимешь кров,
Но не отталкивай Питер!
A couple of days, just few minutes, the moment of the one, and now - lived winter...
Experienced night, in parting from the roofs of the broken snow fringe...
Drowning the sidewalk, bus булькают, the streets by storm - it is not a dream, not a reality...
Crying traffic lights, pedestrian - plop, stopped running away only by swimming...
And then dive, stone sink, up and re-immersed in the mud,
As heavy Neva bridges that look century on for the ripples.
On the Islands of snow pills
Falling heavenly confectioner.
It is not winter, that in negligee
So Peter wakes up.
Cold hands into fists breathe, and the gloves on ice, and in the pockets of snow,
Fancy everywhere, at any angle, the black water of the rivers.
Tomorrow ice float again, Mozart drops запорошит Bach...
Still, spring - a strange thing in the city of rains, the glow from the fire in the ice,
May be, she is not resolved to throw himself, to clear up dead,
Stupidity create, disgrace myself, head lose at your own risk.
No, it is not fear, just circle
Ruled by the artist and the leader.
All times in his Kingdom
In the autumn of painting Peter.
City - the Lord of the grace of God, will not allow it criticism from the outside,
Do not give it a light honors, not to fly to it on a spirited horse,
Kill fighters for the recognition and the rain washed away the signs of a struggle.
Election of his who proved regularly here расшибали foreheads.
But don't avoid the shores of the tribe of vagrants in search of a dream
And not feel the fall of гибельней than here, dead emptiness.
Make the appearance of thy enough of words,
Numbers, characters, character.
With the feet of whether dismissed, take shelter,
But do not reject the Peter!
A couple of days of all, a few minutes, MiG one, and here - live in winter ...
Little night, the smell of fringe broke into farewell to the roofs ...
Sun sidewalks, tires bouffelt, streets storms - not a dream, do not reveal ...
Crying traffic lights, pedestrian - boulders, stopped the run - on the only clove ...
And then dive, measure a stone, to dig and plunge into the hlyb,
Like heavy Nevsky bridges, which look at the century for the ripples.
On the islands of snow dragee
Heavenly confectioner.
That is not winter, then in negligee
So wakes up Peter.
Cold hands, breathe in the fists, and in gloves ice, and in the pockets of snow,
It is molded everywhere, in any angle, the black water of Leningrad rivers.
Tomorrow ice floats again, Mozart Drops will turn off the Bach ...
Still, spring is strange thing in the city of rains, glow in ice,
Maybe she does not decide to throw themselves, get to raise up,
Stupidity will create, disappear, lose his head at your own risk.
No, then - not fear, just around
Rules artist and leader.
All times in the kingdom
In the fall painted Peter.
The city is the Lord of God's Grace, he will not allow criticism from the outside,
He will not give a light honors, do not fly into him on a luxury horse,
Run fighters for recognition and liquets the footprints of the struggle.
The chosenness of his who proved - regularly extended his foreheads here.
But do not avoid these shores of the tribe of the Broadgone in search of a dream
And do not feel in the fall of disastrous, than here, dead void.
Will the appearance of your word
Figures, hieroglyphs, liter.
From whether you beat the legs, take it
But do not replicate Peter!
A Couple Of Days, Just Few Minutes, The Moment of the One, and Now - Lived Winter ...
Experienceed Night, In Parting from The Roofs of the Broken Snow Fringe ...
Drowning The Sidewalk, Bus Bulk, The Streets by Storm - IT IS Not A Dream, Not A Reality ...
Crying Traffic Lights, Pedestrian - Plop, Stopped Running Away Only by Swimming ...
And then Dive, Stone Sink, Up and Re-Immersed in the Mud,
AS Heavy Neva Bridges That Look Century On for the Ripples.
On the Islands of Snow Pills
Falling Heavenly Confectioner.
IT IS NOT WINTER, THAT IN NEGLIGEEE
SO Peter Wakes Up.
Cold Hands Into Fists Breathe, And The Gloves of Snow, and In The Pockets of Snow,
Fancy Everywhere, At Any Angle, The Black Water Of The Rivers.
Tomorrow Ice Float Again, Mozart Drops will turn off Bach ...
Still, Spring - A Strange Thing In the City of Rains, The Glow from the Fire In The Ice,
May Be, She Is Not Resolved to Throw Himself, to Clear Up Dead,
Stupidity Create, Disgrace Myself, Head Lose At Your Own Risk.
NO, IT IS NOT FEAR, JUST CIRCLE
Ruled by The Artist and The Leader.
All Times in His Kingdom
In The Autumn of Painting Peter.
City - The Lord of the Grace of God, Will Not Allow IT Criticism from the Outside
Don't Give It A Light Honors, Not to Fly to It On a Spirited Horse,
Kill Fighters for The Recognition And The Rain Washed Away The Signs of a Struggle.
Election of His Who Proved Regularly Here Explaged Foreheads.
But Don't Avoid The Shores of the Tribe of Vagrants in Search of a Dream
And Not Feel The Fall of the Fallest Than Here, Dead Emptiness.
Make The Appearance of Thy Enough Of Words,
Numbers, Characters, Character.
With the feet of wheeher Dismissed, Take Shelter,
But Don't Reject The Peter!
Little night, the smell of fringe broke into farewell to the roofs ...
Sun sidewalks, tires bouffelt, streets storms - not a dream, do not reveal ...
Crying traffic lights, pedestrian - boulders, stopped the run - on the only clove ...
And then dive, measure a stone, to dig and plunge into the hlyb,
Like heavy Nevsky bridges, which look at the century for the ripples.
On the islands of snow dragee
Heavenly confectioner.
That is not winter, then in negligee
So wakes up Peter.
Cold hands, breathe in the fists, and in gloves ice, and in the pockets of snow,
It is molded everywhere, in any angle, the black water of Leningrad rivers.
Tomorrow ice floats again, Mozart Drops will turn off the Bach ...
Still, spring is strange thing in the city of rains, glow in ice,
Maybe she does not decide to throw themselves, get to raise up,
Stupidity will create, disappear, lose his head at your own risk.
No, then - not fear, just around
Rules artist and leader.
All times in the kingdom
In the fall painted Peter.
The city is the Lord of God's Grace, he will not allow criticism from the outside,
He will not give a light honors, do not fly into him on a luxury horse,
Run fighters for recognition and liquets the footprints of the struggle.
The chosenness of his who proved - regularly extended his foreheads here.
But do not avoid these shores of the tribe of the Broadgone in search of a dream
And do not feel in the fall of disastrous, than here, dead void.
Will the appearance of your word
Figures, hieroglyphs, liter.
From whether you beat the legs, take it
But do not replicate Peter!
A Couple Of Days, Just Few Minutes, The Moment of the One, and Now - Lived Winter ...
Experienceed Night, In Parting from The Roofs of the Broken Snow Fringe ...
Drowning The Sidewalk, Bus Bulk, The Streets by Storm - IT IS Not A Dream, Not A Reality ...
Crying Traffic Lights, Pedestrian - Plop, Stopped Running Away Only by Swimming ...
And then Dive, Stone Sink, Up and Re-Immersed in the Mud,
AS Heavy Neva Bridges That Look Century On for the Ripples.
On the Islands of Snow Pills
Falling Heavenly Confectioner.
IT IS NOT WINTER, THAT IN NEGLIGEEE
SO Peter Wakes Up.
Cold Hands Into Fists Breathe, And The Gloves of Snow, and In The Pockets of Snow,
Fancy Everywhere, At Any Angle, The Black Water Of The Rivers.
Tomorrow Ice Float Again, Mozart Drops will turn off Bach ...
Still, Spring - A Strange Thing In the City of Rains, The Glow from the Fire In The Ice,
May Be, She Is Not Resolved to Throw Himself, to Clear Up Dead,
Stupidity Create, Disgrace Myself, Head Lose At Your Own Risk.
NO, IT IS NOT FEAR, JUST CIRCLE
Ruled by The Artist and The Leader.
All Times in His Kingdom
In The Autumn of Painting Peter.
City - The Lord of the Grace of God, Will Not Allow IT Criticism from the Outside
Don't Give It A Light Honors, Not to Fly to It On a Spirited Horse,
Kill Fighters for The Recognition And The Rain Washed Away The Signs of a Struggle.
Election of His Who Proved Regularly Here Explaged Foreheads.
But Don't Avoid The Shores of the Tribe of Vagrants in Search of a Dream
And Not Feel The Fall of the Fallest Than Here, Dead Emptiness.
Make The Appearance of Thy Enough Of Words,
Numbers, Characters, Character.
With the feet of wheeher Dismissed, Take Shelter,
But Don't Reject The Peter!