Аля Кудряшева - Есть люди - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

There are people who write as transparent as a mountain lake with narrow shores. They compose it and immediately hide it so that no one, God forbid, will trample underfoot, it is so thin, unnoticeable, like a king’s dress, only real, stray, unearthly, beyond the summer, singing to us with something completely transcendental.

There are women who look so beautiful that it’s even a shame to breathe the same air with them, they will look at you - well, just once, for a moment - and you can die happy, and everyone died, they are so light, unfamiliar, and weak at the same time and strong - it seems that he just gave her milk, fed her orange slices from his palm, she laughed, thought something important, asked something like: “Have you washed the dishes?”, then she looked tenderly with wet eyes - and you said happiness you can't say it.

There is a time - it is very different for everyone, when you become part of something in common, say somewhere at a loud ringing festival, or maybe groping your way through the forest at night, your movements become too smooth, and your hands awkwardly freeze, full of melodies, and This means that there is only one note here, but the main one, play it, please, so that they understand.

There is one who has only troubles with us, only worries, insomnia and deprivation, it’s already hard for him, he squeezes his forehead, and you and I look and wait for some kind of consolation, and wait for the right and only road, so that we can go and go out wherever you want. Standing there - tortured, completely skinny, unprepossessing - with his back, probably groaning - when will all this end. But what can you do - after all, you made it all up yourself, now delve into their grievances, betrayals, jealousy, he looked around and apologized - he said, I’ll go out, come back and answer everyone according to their needs.

He sits on the porch and looks at his hands with fear - why all this, no one likes it, and the sky has already lit lanterns above him, and breathes cold - oh, arthritis will break out.

And the house smells of medicine, of burnt porridge, his temple hurts and his heart beats louder and louder and... and he lowers his head, coughs nervously and in a hoarse voice: “I’m listening to you...”