Ольга Макеева - письмо четвертое - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

My dear friend, my distant friend, I repeat. So what! In the wilderness of my Karelian-Finnish country, you won’t find any other fun than writing to you. Even without knowing what topic I will develop, I sense, feel deja vu, trying out the words to taste. Almost buried in oblivion (forget, spit and grind), wonderful moments emerge from memory - one, two, three, twelve, three hundred and twenty-eight - I remember everything. And summer slowly flows, leaning more and more into autumn, and I am increasingly inclined towards sarcasm, albeit reluctantly, even if I am still struggling, struggling with myself, looking for a high note, but I’m unlikely to find it.

The mosquito buzzes on the turn and comes in like a messer from the rear. A slap - and the mosquito is gone. Beautiful love moves sadly inside me in the morning, asks to come out by lunchtime, and in the evening it’s gone and gone, but I don’t even have time to look for it. What’s worse - having dinner in melancholy and sadness, gazing at the treasured notebook, and realizing with horror that the forbidden fruit is not sweet, and the soul does not worry, and the heart - no, does not bleed... It’s getting closer to night, but the verses did not cry, the ringing and tremulous lines did not pour out from the pen. Out of boredom, in the itching silence, I hunt for a mosquito, leaving your bright image.

Perhaps the landscape is to blame. The same sky, the same field and the same lake in the distance, and the wind in a velvet camisole drives clouds-ships from one end to another, and the grass in abandoned meadows rots, and time hides in the stacks, and the goblin climbs out of a ditch and runs away into a dark forest where, pretending to be a stone, the spirit, the ruler of these places, sleeps and warms his bald head with a viper. All the same berries, mushrooms, compotes, jams, marinades, and flowered palisades, and the captivity of a flooded hut, and the same laziness, and the same bliss, unpretentious country life, and running fun into the water, and into the sky with a sobbing song ... There is still the same beauty around as always.

But I'm not the same. I'm bored, crazy - but without the languor of spring and pink snot. The memories of former days do not awaken my torment, alas! I would be so happy to paint a picture of my past passion, but here’s an unfortunate misfortune - the horse was stolen from a horse thief. Tender torment makes one fall asleep, the songs of the heart make the ears wither, and somehow aside, whether the object is in love with me or is indifferent to me - I know in advance what can happen and what will happen... why should a bird that knows the wind ask the sky for a plane? What does a beauty need a hood for, what does a milkmaid need a Northerner? My poison, my illness, resonates within me without the sticky rubbish of very dubious passions.

Out of habit, I wait for news from you and write messages to you, but simply, without sparkle. The delight of mutual understanding was washed away by the river of time. The look grows old, tenderness turns grey, the succession of moments multiplies and tires. Quinoa. Snooze. Bad weather. Inevitability. And writing strange letters has long been much sweeter than seeing you or imagining how you open an envelope rustling with tender words, shedding a stingy tear for a heap of years, for an evil share, for something that is not in sight. My friend! It would take enough ink to cry on a blank sheet of paper, but who loved whom and where is not interesting or important.

In the name of clear fire, forgive me for being stupid.