Псой Короленко - Чёрный человек
текст песни

My friend, my friend,
I am very, very sick.
I don’t know where this pain came from.
Whether the wind whistles
Above the deserted field,
Then, like a grove in September,
Slows alcohol.

My head waves my ears
Like wings of a bird.
On my neck
She hanging out more not to the end.
Black, black,
On the pillow sits down to me,
Black man
It does not let me sleep all night.

Here he is, here he is
Reads on a vile book
And mutters over me
As over the dead monk,
All about life
Scoundrel and zabuldygi,
Setting up to the soul of despondency and fear.
Black man ....

Lived in the world
Magician and poet
With not very large
But with a very seized force
And some woman
More than forty years old
He called a bad girl
And with his sweet one.

“Happiness,” he said, “
There is dexterity of mind and hands.
All awkward souls
For the unfortunate are always known.
It's nothing,
That a lot of torment
They bring these lungs
And air gestures.

In storms, in thunderstorms,
In the Likhny everyday dun,
At an hour of heavy losses
And when you are sad,
It seem to everyone
Mysterious and simple - this
The highest art in the world. "

Black man ...

Here he is, here he is
Looks at me point blank.
And the eyes are covered
Muddy vomit, -
As if he wants to say
That I'm a crook and a thief
So shamelessly easy
Obligging someone.

Black man ....

My friend, my friend,
I am very, very sick.
I don’t know where this pain came from.
Whether the wind whistles
Above the deserted field,
Then, like a grove in September,
Slows alcohol.

Black man ....