Федор Кроткий - Шепчут линии на руке
текст песни

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The lines on the hand are whispering:
Don't have time for you, do not have time
Only perhaps to finish the song
And a familiar road to hell
And in the ward after number six
On the window grille cross
Pray and wait for miracles
Wait and wait, so many years in a row

The life of the poet - crossed out a line
Get up to the light and not feel peace
Cigarettes and a postwall, night in the forerunner of bad weather
Happiness flows into the blue tape of veins along the needle

To be flying - yes bad
Svetlyachkov, like stars, in a handful
And to the sky, where the Lord
Yes, they are unlikely to fly
After all, the last nail will not be taken out
Well, the guests shouted: toast
Felts jester, roofing felts called guest
Tola will bring wine, felts poison

You would be glad to live like everyone else
Not on the oncoming lane
But where is he, that wonderful light?
Lighthouses only blink in a row
Yes, a neighbor will look after
With cigarette, tipsy
Your light holding in your hand
Grunts: what, manuscripts are burning?

What are your poems? Gingerbread? Watch?
Since you can’t howl with longing, so to sing
And the orchestra will light its copper
Well, tell me, it's not in vain, not in vain
Our life is like our death
Laughter through tears, after all, it is known
The one from the balcony
Wet rose fell on November