Михаил Щербаков - Другое обращение к герою
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Михаил Щербаков - Другое обращение к герою - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Проживи, как я хоть двести
лет, хоть триста, хоть на месте
сидя, хоть чертя кривые, -
ты в таблицы восковые
не уверуешь, как я.
Мудрено читать на воске...
да и мир - скорей подмостки,
чем, увы, библиотека.
И плевать какого века
есть метафора сия.
Ты невзлюбишь этот тямный
балаган с его скоромной
болтовняй, с битьям предметов
кухни, с блеяньем кларнетов
и жужанием гитар,
с невменяемым партером
и любовником-премьером,
что на горе всем актрисам,
хоть и выглядит нарциссом,
вся же пахнет, как кентавр.
Ты дерзняшь, как от заразы,
прочь бежать, презрев приказы,
коих альфа и омега
в отрицании побега,
дескать, тоже болтовня!
И раскаешься тем паче
в должный срок. Но как иначе?
Я ведь брал счета к оплате,
а тебе с какой же стати
быть удачливей меня?
Новым Глостером, впустую
принимая за крутую
гору плоское пространство,
станешь ты менять гражданство
с быстротоц сверхзвуковой,
примеряя, как для бала,
антураж какой попало -
и драгунский, и шаманский,
и бургундский, и шампанский,
и церковно-цирковой...
Так и вижу, как в Гранаде
или в Бирме на канате
ты танцуешь, горд и страшен,
меж бумажных крыш и башен
пред бумажным божеством
и, понятный божеству лишь,
весь горишь и торжествуешь,
но - в Крыму ли, на Суматре -
вся опять-таки в театре,
и опять-таки в плохом.
Лишний раз над башней ближней
промахав руками лишний
час и лишний раз дотошно
убедившись только в том, что
твердь воистину тверда,
ты опустишь руки словно
раб цепной, который брявна
ворошит и камни движет,
и отчаянье пронижет
плоть и кровь твою тогда.
И совсем уже бесстрастно,
ни контраста, ни пространства
не боясь, уже у края,
прямо в публику ныряя,
прямо в чярные ряды,
ощутишь спиной негибкой,
что глядит тебе с улыбкой
кто-то вслед. И будет это
Люцифер, носитель света,
ангел утренней звезды.
- Без моей команды, - скажет
он, - вокруг тебя не ляжет
мгла, и медленной волною
не сойдятся над тобою
восхитительная тишь.
Так что, где-нибудь в Лаосе
потанцуй ешя на тросе
или где-нибудь в Майами
помаши ещя руками,
может, вся-таки взлетишь.
Live, like me at least two hundred
years, at least three hundred, at least in place
Sitting, at least the devil, crooked, -
You are in the wax table
You will not believe like me.
It is wise to read on the wax ...
And the world is rather the stage,
than, alas, the library.
And do not care
There is a metaphor of this.
You will dislike this tamny
Balagan with his imminent
Bow, with items
kitchens, with clarinet black
And the buzz of guitars,
With a insane sino
And the prime minister lover,
What is on the mountain to all actresses,
although it looks like a daffodil
All smells like a centaur.
You dare like an infection,
away to run, despising orders,
which alpha and omega
in the denial of the escape,
Say, also chatter!
And you repent all the more
within the long time. But how else?
I took accounts for payment,
and what on earth
To be more successful than me?
New Gloucester, wasted
Taking a steep one
Mountain Flat space,
You will become citizenship
with fast -headed speeds,
Trying as for the ball,
any entourage -
Both Dragoon and Shaman,
Both Burgundy and Champagne,
and church-zirova ...
So I see how in Granade
or in Burma on the rope
You are dancing, proud and scary
between paper roofs and towers
before a paper deity
And, understandable to the deity, only
You get it all and triumphantly
But - in Crimea, on Sumatra -
All again in the theater,
And again in the bad.
Once again over the tower of the neighbor
Lumming up the excess with his hands
an hour and once again meticulous
After making sure that
The firm is truly hard,
You give up your hands as if
a chain slave, which is Bryavavna
turning and moving stones,
And despair will penetrate
Your flesh and blood then.
And already completely impassive
no contrast, no space
Not afraid, already at the edge
Directly diving in the public,
Right in the chases,
you feel the bastard with your back
what is looking at you with a smile
Someone after. And it will be
Lucifer, bearer of light,
Angel of the morning star.
“Without my team,” he will say
He, - will not lie around you
haze, and a slow wave
Do not come down to you
A delightful quiet.
So, somewhere in Laos
Dance Eshya on the cable
or somewhere in Miami
Washing with hands,
Maybe you still take off.
years, at least three hundred, at least in place
Sitting, at least the devil, crooked, -
You are in the wax table
You will not believe like me.
It is wise to read on the wax ...
And the world is rather the stage,
than, alas, the library.
And do not care
There is a metaphor of this.
You will dislike this tamny
Balagan with his imminent
Bow, with items
kitchens, with clarinet black
And the buzz of guitars,
With a insane sino
And the prime minister lover,
What is on the mountain to all actresses,
although it looks like a daffodil
All smells like a centaur.
You dare like an infection,
away to run, despising orders,
which alpha and omega
in the denial of the escape,
Say, also chatter!
And you repent all the more
within the long time. But how else?
I took accounts for payment,
and what on earth
To be more successful than me?
New Gloucester, wasted
Taking a steep one
Mountain Flat space,
You will become citizenship
with fast -headed speeds,
Trying as for the ball,
any entourage -
Both Dragoon and Shaman,
Both Burgundy and Champagne,
and church-zirova ...
So I see how in Granade
or in Burma on the rope
You are dancing, proud and scary
between paper roofs and towers
before a paper deity
And, understandable to the deity, only
You get it all and triumphantly
But - in Crimea, on Sumatra -
All again in the theater,
And again in the bad.
Once again over the tower of the neighbor
Lumming up the excess with his hands
an hour and once again meticulous
After making sure that
The firm is truly hard,
You give up your hands as if
a chain slave, which is Bryavavna
turning and moving stones,
And despair will penetrate
Your flesh and blood then.
And already completely impassive
no contrast, no space
Not afraid, already at the edge
Directly diving in the public,
Right in the chases,
you feel the bastard with your back
what is looking at you with a smile
Someone after. And it will be
Lucifer, bearer of light,
Angel of the morning star.
“Without my team,” he will say
He, - will not lie around you
haze, and a slow wave
Do not come down to you
A delightful quiet.
So, somewhere in Laos
Dance Eshya on the cable
or somewhere in Miami
Washing with hands,
Maybe you still take off.
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