Ярослав Смеляков - Поэты
текст песни

I'm not talking about those golden -headed
singers of the paternal land,
that they drank to the elasticity of the cup of glory
And in the anthology entered.

And not about those semi -estimated
witnesses of past years,
that still on the sheets of newspaper
They left their weak mark.

I want to say at least compressed
About those that, thoroughly contrary to
So they left without printing
one single line.

In villages and on half -steers
They are in the midst of a noisy crowd -
wrote on service forms
His poems.

Over a student notebook,
In the desire of glory and goodness,
sighing sadly and sweet,
They sat until the morning.

Obscure plans of greatness
their own souls burned,
but through the jail
It could not break through to people.

Poems folded in a hurry,
They read with pathos they
Under the half -brave grin
their colleagues and relatives.

Ah, how many of them have passed in the light
From those to date,
Such unrecognized poets
And unstable names!

All the poor brothers, to the descendants
They did not pose a torus.
I consider it a duty to be quiet,
But gratefully remember.

After all, the Muse of Pushkin and the Blok,
Finding a basement or attic,
They were visited inadvertently,
They ran to them just like that.

Their foreheads were mysteriously concerned,
gave two minutes to them
And, smiling, they returned
back to the rulers of their