Аля Кудряшева - Театр-весна - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

There is nowhere to explode, nowhere to soar

The puppeteer is on the reservation, with no one to talk to.

The puppeteer composes, the puppeteer subordinates, the puppeteer repairs torn puppets. This wig is useless, this costume is not in fashion, this one seems to be normal, but there are no dolls.

There are no dolls all the time, dolls walk around the world, dolls don’t like branches hitting them in the face. The dolls are friends with the wrong people, the dolls are subject to snowstorms, the dolls take away time, time is coming to an end.

There is no one to wave a hundred square meters with, no one to go on the run with.

The puppeteer's sneakers will survive the snow.

The puppeteer is a lightweight, the puppeteer is always in red, the puppeteer will not cover the shutters looking into the sky. The puppeteer writes plays - plays about everything is wonderful, everything would be wonderful except - no one puts on plays.

The puppeteer is red, the spectators are scoundrels.

The puppeteer is simply a master, a master red blood cell.

The puppeteer writes in vain, the master chews gum, the world behind him is hopelessly dead. If he is not drawing a teardrop for Harlequin, then Harlequin spends his nights stealing mascara from the dressing room. If he had composed, instead of strangers, Montagues, for example, Puccini, well, for example, Corolli... the viewer breaks the halos, blurs the shades, only repairs the tombstones, only changes roles.

The puppeteer, like a shoemaker, drinks and counts the days.

The puppeteer, it seems, has no one to subjugate.

He changes the years, multiplies by rho, and the city, the city also changes, the scene changes with a gesture. The puppeteer is not proud, how can you be proud if the frost on your skin crawls against your fur? The master is imperfect, the master is not perfect, the master lights a pipe, putting a patch on Pierrot, the stage smells of cherries, the screen smells of cherry, the puppeteer reaches out his hands to the warm chaos.

The puppeteer wants to go to his mother, wants to cry and lie,

The angels dozed off, there was no one to help.

There is no one to lean against, no one to whisper, no one to sip drops of the hot elixir with.

You'll dream again about how many stations are left? No matter what they predict, it’s fresh and damp again.

Here he comes out at midnight, the rustling of the night railings.

If only he hadn't remembered and spoken.

The darkness is just leaving, the smell of lemon peels, salt and gunpowder are in the air - as always in spring. Where the violin plays, life began with a scream, the wind in your face - look how you feel - not with me? Red blood cell in the constellation Aries, the wind shakes the logs, what does your den mean to him? There is an intricacy of nerves, if you breathe unevenly, it means that in the spring the neurons will begin to twist you around.

The puppeteer rubs his palms, carefully tears the leaves

If only he didn't experience sadness today...

The puppeteer looks through the crack, the world puffs out its cheeks, he is to blame - of course, spring is trembling in the world. There is no time for suffering, really, the puppeteer writes with the right hand, the puppeteer rightfully belongs to time. The puppeteer looks into the summer, the master knows no limits, the master opened the curtains, the master flies to Tibet. He cut Juliet, he changed Romeo, it’s scary to think what he changed in Macbeth.

Master - what's wrong? The Master is no match for us.

Music - Shostakovich. The pulse cannot be counted.

Spring will be overboard, the chicks will be moping.

The puppeteer is at work, there is no time to talk.