Аля Кудряшева - Петербургская мистерия - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

And to be yourself - look - I need a little very little - just live under the blanket of twelve hours, not three, I need a warm, blue evening, with wine and buns in honey, and learn to be beautiful, calm people for trouble, me You need to ride the subway, push with sharp elbows, and feel how hunger pulls my dried outflow, I need to cry quietly over a failed novel, shout "Of course, everything is fine" - "everything is bad" quietly speaking, throwing under cars, sitting on a white lane , more, almost from everyone, I need to be loved, throw a scarf on my shoulders, consider myself a little bit with a poet. And you need to live - otherwise all this loses some charm.

It seemed that yesterday is October, but the wind was beating plywood with a shield, it jumps onto the gate, pinches nerves, typhoons of snowy spinning. I smoke at the star bucket, stealthily, fifting up from work, with such unheard of freedom that there’s nothing to breathe about. That I didn’t even look about - I squint against the snow, and he is so sprinkled, sprinkles from the sky that the world has decreased by a third. And in this world we wander - the actors of the ghostly extras, I introduce old sneakers with wet sugar of winter.

On the arrow in the light of the lantern, tourists study the map - birth facilities almost in early November. Try to survive in the wind, I go through the bridge to Petrogradka - I go, clutching at the fence, I glue on a wet carpet. I recognize myself a little in any past person, from now on, permanently and forever I will live, where I want, where I will order the eye and nose, where the curve carries me, there is so alive that it is most funny. You want to drink - well, pour, I, too, thank you, God, for the dissimilar, for passers -by, for the exchange in the trembling of lanterns. But you are sitting in the heat, in snot, over books, on the technician, scraping your nails on the cover, put notes on the fields, and whisper, falling asleep at midnight, wiping into a warm blanket - you whisper for many years, but you probably don’t remember:

I will never break the Spartans under the pilot.

I will never break the Spartans under the pilot.

I will never see the Spartans under the pilot.

The wool is being rushed on a jacket, and everything around is closer and flatter, and I move the area of ​​tram from thirty -six. I can’t help you, I will come quietly, I will throw my bag, I brought a transparent dusk, I will barefoot the St. Petersburg night. The Spartans are doomed here, there are no brilliant and strong, there is a thin smell of oranges and the adult taste of silence. With steps with light longing come to visit, pulls the veins and asks: "Alive?" -It. You have nothing to look for here.

But tomorrow it’s not behind the mountain, we will shake the dark avenue - very tired actors who know the role unwell. The dog is trembling in Konura, the water in the boots does not heat up, but there is yesterday’s picture - and the exchange in the light of the lanterns. And the rest is nonsense, the longing sneaks with a pace, but we will disappear in the backstage and we will be alive - forever.