Вера Полозкова - Факт - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

And the fact is merciless and creepy, like a pointed crossbow: they have arrived, in three days I will be exactly twenty years old.

And this is a good age - such that

Lord forgive me. Sorry for the nervousness, but I’m almost hysterical.

Now they will go to dance squat and sing, clinking their glasses: but life is

being in my thirties doesn't make me happy at all.

Don't [shake]. Like with love: in

for a second - him, no one else. So that the inside, in sync with the eyebrow, boils

a volt arc, so that everything would become sharper, sharper under the gaze of his bitter

eyes, after all, they weren’t taught to be careful, and never did; everything is just

they slowly get into it - wait, baby, who are you talking about? And you are knocked out and

you lie prone on the floor; so that in the brain, when they introduce you, the sirens go up

howl; What's the point of touching the pool with your foot when you're diving headlong?

There is no zest, no intrigue that pulls

forward; you read two pages of the book - and you immediately see: he won’t trample;

a sensitive, personal, special detector of internal voids beeps; take it

palm, kiss him on the lips and immediately know: no, not the one. Within my limits

quarter there is not a single road to heaven; And I'm tired. I'm so tired that at least

lie down and die.

I’m not excited about the process itself, everyone is poking

fingers and laugh: she was quite a princess, but she became a royal jester.

Everything seemed to be deprived of meaning, washed away, diluted with water. Eye dim, grin

a yoke, and a gray hair on his head.

But you should be cutting in the thick of it, being pioneers

An example to everyone - so impetuous, running, not recognizing half measures. Bye

I wasn’t starstruck, I wasn’t knocked out, I wasn’t carried away - to find my own business,

some craft, devote yourself entirely to it - maybe you’ll raise money, but

– hardly a lot. Damn, I'm twenty. And it's not funny anymore.

Don’t wait for your opponent to kick out, but rush

forward at full speed; but it’s so hard for me to make a choice: in the scruff of the neck

fear nestled in and dangled the Lilliputian legs. Bad, evil deja vu: me

I lingered at the crossroads so much that I live on it.

I live and build fortifications, growing into the ground,

like quinoa; with a heavy side, I turn back and forth like a seal and think that

I will turn into a legend from ashes, rubbish, junk, like a Phoenix; good youth,

gender, ambition and blah blah blah. I'll break through, maybe somehow, no

we will think about the bad; or maybe at my crossroads I’ll lie down and cover myself with moss

and I will become a stone (not a bulk, as we often like to think) - a simple example of how not to, of which there are darkness and darkness and darkness.

Forecasts, as always, are vague, but

time obstinate - I don’t know how to make plans taking into account long-term prospects and

think how much God measured before the charter in his Paradise. I'm listening to

old Cheryl - her Tomorrow Never Dies.

Life is a creative problem book: conditions

are written by you. You'll think you're a loser, and then you'll lose the fight yourself.

You will forever be guilty of the log that is in your way; I actually don't believe it

in fate - we create it ourselves; how do you think - remember Descartes? - and so

live; your atlas is clean; fate is a contour map - you are your own

surveyor.

Everything we do is an attempt

somehow not to die; so someone from an overabundance of resources buys a third

some republics are poor, and some are angry and drink, and some are in

he is looking for treasure in the crypts, and someone is sticking his hand into the oven; and someone is on the run from

routine, from the itch on the left under the rib, he draws eternal pictures that breathe

good from within; and someone is as happy as a child when he sees, after drying,

that same frame from a pile of films - as proof that he is alive; A

someone exposes his round butt on live television, and many talk about

the world when they have nothing to say; so someone carves riffs, sings so that

scream death; so I pile up rhymes in my crumpled notebook, put

them with the tenderness of Procrustes in his line, like bricks, as if it would

parapet when they come for me in the night; as if I'm going to hit them when

The Last Judgment will begin; as if they would fall into the Chalice, and pull it over, and

will be saved.

From the horror of this abyss, from this

ardent love, from this pain - sing, dear, helpless