Голубые Береты - Горячий телефон
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Голубые Береты - Горячий телефон - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Телефонный звонок из рая в ад, телефонная горечь войны...
От беспомощной боли руки горят - прикоснувшись к словам беды.
Раскаленная горем, трубка кричит, умоляя лишь дать ответ,
То озноб по спине, то восторг не молчит - если в списках погибших нет...
Мозг как пристань чужих надежд, коммутатор обид и зла,
Виновата не трубка не телефон - виновата во всем война.
Привкус крови чужой на губах и чужая беда как своя...
Виноват не тот кто трубку берет, виноват кто послал туда.
Шаг за шагом квартал за кварталом горит, но сильнее огня приказ.
Ведь присягу давали мы именно тем, кто заочно уж предал нас.
И простит меня мать что кричит в телефон, я не знаю еще ответ,
Я отдал бы всю жизнь, чтоб ответить тебе -"Сына в списках погибших нет!"
Мозг как пристань чужих надежд, коммутатор обид и зла,
Виновата не трубка не телефон - виновата во всем война.
Привкус крови чужой на губах и чужая беда как своя...
Виноват не тот кто трубку берет, виноват кто послал туда.
Привкус крови чужой на губах
И чужая беда - как своя.
Виноват не тот, кто трубку берет,
Виноват - кто послал туда...
A phone call from paradise to hell, telephone bitterness of war ...
From helpless pain, hands burn - touching the words of trouble.
Hot, pipe screams, begging only to give an answer,
Either chills on the back, then delight is not silent - if there are no dead in the lists ...
The brain as a marina of other people's hopes, a switch of resentment and evil,
The pipe is not the phone is not to blame - the war is to blame for everything.
A taste of blood alien on the lips and someone else's trouble is like his own ...
It’s not the one who picks up the phone is to blame who sent it there.
Step by step, the quarter behind the quarter burns, but more than the fire is the order.
After all, we gave the oath to those who in absentia betrayed us.
And my mother will forgive me that he shouts into the phone, I don't know the answer yet,
I would give my whole life to answer you -"There is no son in the lists of the dead!"
The brain as a marina of other people's hopes, a switch of resentment and evil,
The pipe is not the phone is not to blame - the war is to blame for everything.
A taste of blood alien on the lips and someone else's trouble is like his own ...
It’s not the one who picks up the phone is to blame who sent it there.
A bit of blood of a stranger on the lips
And someone else's trouble is like your own.
It is not the one who picks up the phone,
It’s to blame - who sent there ...
From helpless pain, hands burn - touching the words of trouble.
Hot, pipe screams, begging only to give an answer,
Either chills on the back, then delight is not silent - if there are no dead in the lists ...
The brain as a marina of other people's hopes, a switch of resentment and evil,
The pipe is not the phone is not to blame - the war is to blame for everything.
A taste of blood alien on the lips and someone else's trouble is like his own ...
It’s not the one who picks up the phone is to blame who sent it there.
Step by step, the quarter behind the quarter burns, but more than the fire is the order.
After all, we gave the oath to those who in absentia betrayed us.
And my mother will forgive me that he shouts into the phone, I don't know the answer yet,
I would give my whole life to answer you -"There is no son in the lists of the dead!"
The brain as a marina of other people's hopes, a switch of resentment and evil,
The pipe is not the phone is not to blame - the war is to blame for everything.
A taste of blood alien on the lips and someone else's trouble is like his own ...
It’s not the one who picks up the phone is to blame who sent it there.
A bit of blood of a stranger on the lips
And someone else's trouble is like your own.
It is not the one who picks up the phone,
It’s to blame - who sent there ...
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