Марта Яковлева - Театр абсурда - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

She was the best, and I loved her. The roles were painted by an unknown screenwriter and recorded by the director once and for all. No appellation was supposed. Yes, actually I did not need applation. She was the best, and I loved her. Therefore, she could live with her husband, and I had to live with my mother. Therefore, she could give birth to children, and I had to store virginity. Therefore, she could hit her fist on the table or pinched my ass, and I was supposed to bashfully lower my eyes or giggled suggestively. And you know, you know what? And she lived, and kept, and lowered and even, horror, giggled, timidly and embarrassed, as it should be.

The theater of the absurdity is not somewhere there. This is here, with you. When he is married, and you think he will divorce. Because it is only in the books of mistresses that they throw, and you have it, love! When she is cheating, and you think that she just attracts your attention. When she lives with another, with another, with others, does not live at all, and has long died of overdose, syphilis, AIDS or ARI, and you still think that everything will be fine with you.

The theater of the absurd is a military theater of actions here and now. This is when you transport things to a new apartment that your lover rented you and try to calculate the route to her home. "Why do you need to go to her if you have a new lover?" - shouts the crowd. The crowd, chanting, hooting and fading, except that he does not throw nonsense into the air. And you think the sphophores and kilometers, although you know for sure that you will not go this route. Nowhere.

There is no love. There is one nonsense. Stage play. And here is another union broke up before your eyes:

- Do you promise, such and such, not to love, not to believe, not wait and not look for meetings?

- I promise.

- Do you promise, such and such, no longer wait, do not wish, do not look and not think?

- I promise.

Basta. A curtain. Oh no. There will be no curtain. The theater of the absurd will continue daily: in the confusion of names, in the familiar names of the metro stations, near cities and cafes where you were together. The streets will be painfully crashed into the temple with the joints of letters. Sovetskaya, Lenin, enthusiasts, self -gathering, Satuinskaya finally.

To hell with dotted ones. To hell with polytheism. To the hell of praise and gossip. Tell me how to love it? To love, but not so to die and all this: "She smoked lingeringly one in one, thought, oh, how no one understands her." Not "she lit the Indian sticks, poured herself wine and drank disappointedly." Without cut veins and tantrums to love! This happens? Well, no, it does not happen.

And again the roles, roles, roles. And now you are better. And she, he, it, they are intended to love you. And it seems that you are still trying to stay on the platform and not to fail this unrequited play of the provincial scriptwriter-soldier. And it seems that you pull the habitually: “But we live here, and we bought a washing machine, and the refrigerator, and copy it on the mortgage, yes ...” And you are already confused in words. You get confused because it was all. And more than once. And it was not with you either. I'm all that. She was the best, and I killed her. Today. That's all love ... And for some reason, for some reason, it does not happen.