Франц Кафка - Дорога домой - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

(reads: Ekaterina Semenova)

Here it is, the conviction of air after a thunderstorm! My merits appear before me and suppress me, although I do not rest.

I walk, and my pace is the pace of this side of the street, this street, this quarter. I am rightfully responsible for any knock on the door, on the covers of the tables, for all the tables of health, for the couples in love in their beds, in the forests of new buildings, pressed in dark streets to the walls of houses, on the courses of brothels.

I evaluate my past in comparison with my future, but I find the other excellent, neither one nor the other I can’t prefer and condemn only the injustice of providence that has favors me so much.

Just entering my room, I become a little thoughtful, although nothing that I would think about, I, climbing the stairs, found. It doesn’t help me very much that the window is wide open and that music still plays in some garden.

(translation by S. APTA)