Константин Завалин - Матерок - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

For some time I rented an apartment in Motovilikh on Chekhov Street. Once, late at night, one philologist brought me there, he said that "only P." could only call this ditch in the name of Anton Pavlovich ... ". As one in the past, the Perm poet said: "My literary is exhausted, but there is a mat, in kind ...".

Police officers came to me and showed photos of people who were asked not to open the door, but immediately call them. Friends advised not to walk alone in the evenings and carry a heavy object with you. These are the usual features of the outskirts of the working village. The contingent of living are mainly workers of the plant, tired of the household and hard work of the hard workers. In fact, in most cases - the sweetest people.

When the first wintering for me came in this apartment, a real dubak hit in January. I, as now, worked in the media, and, it happened, the January morning wandered to work in a crowd of people hurrying to the Hudkok to the passing one. How he is buzzing, this beep ... - So the Archangel Gabriel trumpets the hut up, and people still work ...

And also, “in the area” is cold and dark. And scary. In general, I don’t like winter, except that you can run a dozen on Sunday on a crossroads, so you need to get together and go. It usually does not reach the “go”. And then the human mass moves - mechanically, measuredly, purposefully, just without creaking. So he wrote a song. And the song is this:

Gumber that January is not time for beautiful butterflies.

And in the morning, under a jacket, a breeze sings between the ribs,

Put on the body, an ordinary worker will go to work,

And from the lips of the proletarian to the blue sky, the mother will flog.

Fluttrates the mother with a moth in the burning cold,

And, by creaking with hangover centuries, a man will look into the sky,

And there are already thousands of strong words flutter and circle,

It was as if slices of the soul fly to the dozing God.

And the turnstiles groan on the passage,

Somewhere summer, somewhere heat ..

And before the weekend hundreds of thousands of years,

And Monday ...

It happens that the proletariat will dream to dream of something,

It happens that he will pull the stump - it means it will be warm.

It happens that it is sober, although it is almost never sober,

And here, standing in the cold, as if the head was baked.

And tears will swell in the eyes, like dew on a violet,

So, as if the forgotten wilted flower had been watered.

Spring drives in parallel worlds on a color hearse,

And in the trace she is flying a cursing cold of a dashing mother.

And turnstiles are crying on the passage,

And the beep is already singing.

Materic flies into the sky like a rocket,

And a stubborn flight.

Materic flies, and the proletariat of the legs leads,

Or maybe the wings are carried to a sparkling light.

There will be something to chat about with the old settlement God,

There, spring repaired a ridiculous fight, rustled from the snow.

Gumber that January is not time for beautiful butterflies.

And in the morning, under a jacket, a breeze sings between the ribs,

Put on the body, an ordinary worker will go to work,

And from the lips of the proletarian to the blue sky, the mother will flog.