Георгий Свиридов - Снег Идет
текст песни

Words on the composition "Snow is coming"

Part 1

Pastarnak -
Snow is on, snow is coming.
To white stars in a drill
Geranium flowers stretch
For the window binding.

The snow goes, and everything is in confusion,
Everything is allowed into flight, -
The black staircase of the step,
Crossroads turn.

Snow is on, snow comes,
As if they are not falling flakes,
And in a paid salop
The sky is the ground.

As if with a view of an eccentric
From the upper landing,
Sneaking, playing hide and seek
The sky goes off the attic.

Because life does not expect.
Do not look around - and Christmas time.
Only a short gap,
You look, there is New Year.

Snow goes, thick-ghost.
In the leg with him, in the feet of those
At the same pace, with the laziness of that
Or with the same speed,
Maybe time passes?

Maybe a year a year
Follow how snow goes
Or how are words in the poem?

Snow is on, snow comes,
The snow goes, and everything is in confusion:
Cuttled pedestrian,
Surprised plants,
Crossroads turn.

Part 2

NIGHT
It goes without delays
And the night melts while
Over the sleeping world pilot
Goes into the clouds.

He drowned in a fog
Disappeared in his stream,
Becoming a cross on the fabric
And a label on the linen.

Night bars under it,
Other people's cities,
Barracks, stokers,
Stations, trains.

All body on a cloud
The shadow of the wing lies.
Wandering, straying into a heap,
Heavenly bodies.

And terrible, terrible roll
To others
Unknown universal
They turn the Milky Way.

In the spaces of unlimited
The continents are burning.
In basements and boiler rooms
Putters are not sleeping.

In Paris from under the roof
Venus or Mars
Look what in the poster
A new farce has been declared.

Someone does not sleep
In the beautiful far
On the covered tile
Ancient attic.

He looks at the planet
Like a sky
Refers to the subject
His night worries.

Do not sleep, do not sleep, work,
Do not interrupt your work
Do not sleep, fight with a drempy,
Like a pilot, like a star.

Do not sleep, do not sleep, artist,
Do not indulge in sleep.
You are the eternity hostage
The time is captured.

Part 3

SOUL
My soul, sadder
About everyone in my circle,
You have become a tomb
Tortured alive.

Their bodies are balming,
Dedicated to them,
Sobbing lyre
Mourning them,

You are skins in our time
For conscience and for fear
You are worth the grave urn.
Their rest.

Their flour is aggregate
You were inclined by NIC.
You smell with dusty corpse
Dead and tombs.

My soul, meadow,
Everything seen here
Peremolov like a mill
You turned into a mixture.

And then grind
Everything that was with me
Like forty years almost,
In the weather humus.

(1956 Boris Pasternak)