Аля Кудряшева - Я этого не писала.Ты этого не читал. - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

One hundred days, one hundred nights,

The city is crying - it is nobody,

You know, the life of unlucky

converge to the smallest detail.

Now two hours thirty eight minutes. Now I sit down at the table, take a pencil and write to you what they are not expected of me. And if they are waiting, you will ever give it. The sea danced and rain over it wailed. I did not write this. You haven't read it.

...

Someday he goes to meet her. He puts on a jacket, takes the dog, kicks the jar with displeasure on the stairs and politely answers, what time is an hour. To the stop, in general, not far, but it walks slowly, reflecting, in wide small puddles, from rusty leaves, in a prickly sky, pale as milk. He absorbs a fragmented sound navigation, a transparent non -season, a chill on the skin, he thinks that his beloved is similar to small rain dancing in lanterns. He thinks that they all look like neon snakes on wet roofs, on how carefully they breathe in his hands when it is slightly burnt. She hugs him. Slightly sipping, greets. He throws the dog Korzhik. He thinks that his beloved everyone is similar and smiles to himself to himself.

Someday, for example, after a couple of days, she sits on the bus, like a lively, dangerous, like a guard dog when the boost is flattened in front of her. She sits and everything barks inside her and looks with the eyes of the color, like a liquid iodine. On the radio, some asshole sings: "Oh, my girl, la-la-la-la-lala, oh my girl, you are as angry as if he did not give you at all." She approaches the exit, like a zombie. And the tears in her tremble, as if grains in goiter, she roars, inhaling the runaway, the twenty -year -old forehead, or rather his forehead, as if the whole world tried to break to her, and this moron was able to. And the hare lived, and the fox lived, and the lioness - and the bear came and destroyed the entire tower. She stands and her scythe is waist -deep. And the cheeks of wet from tears. And love has one who fell under the train and the one who is sprayed with mud from under the wheels.

Someday we are sitting with you as a sash - you, I, and four ghostly shortcomings and moonlight, and my blue skirt, and a smoky and inseparable bone. Someday we are sitting with you by the fire and you tell me: "Listen, who are these people?" And I answer: "These are all those who love or loved me." And I say: “This one gave me a year, and this two, and this one paid with poems that blazed me inside and reflected the lines of him. Fifty months, hundreds of living ranges, sleepless and happy eye veins - which I then lended from them and then Now I have to live everything for them. You see, the fold, bitter, elderly, you hear - the laughter is frantic, shed - you thought it was always with me, and I was worried about someone. " Perhaps not wanting it herself - but forever, as usual under the moon.

...

Time - probably five with a tail. With a sharp pencil, this text is written that everything will be fine. And the point is the very point. I did not write this. You haven't read it.