ТеАтР ОдНоГо ВаХтЁрА - Книги окон
текст песни

Braiding plaits into the rain,
Riding bareback through a moonlit day,
I emerge from love—dry and unscathed.
Earth, do not try to rein me in.
I played at minutes with the cuckoo—
Losing years, winning back days...

The books of windows are forever writing:
Of how cities are carried along with us;
Of how unbearable a bed can be;
Of how people are unhinged from their frames;
Of how, having drunk their fill of freedom,
St. Vitus dancers perform a belly dance...

And flocks of thoughts swirl inside my head;
Death has paused, just a step away.
She and I share the sun—neat, without ice.
The books of windows are forever writing.
The rain follows a step behind;
The rain runs a step ahead—out of tune...

Yet still, I keep returning home.
It’s a pity one cannot simply shout to everyone: "I belong here!"
I have grown weary of being an honest bow;
I have grown weary of being a bullet in a chamber.
He played at minutes with the cuckoo—
Losing years, winning back days...

To be woven into the plaits of the rain,
Walking barefoot through a moonlit day,
I emerge from love—dry and unscathed.
Earth, do not try to catch me...
And something more...
Love—and something more.
In the books of windows, there is always something more...