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

Well, it's probably time to put a cross on it. The emptiness is such that every gesture leaves a taste of sour cabbage soup, and more annoying than youthful pimples is this nonsense, these pompous words, this memory of a sigh on the hair, on the back of the head, this alien ardor, and an inviting look, and a silent reproach, and cold coffee - that's still rubbish, and why did I get up so early?..

The morning dawns - in clouds and clovers. Here with us, in the cold north, at the end of July it almost always smells of autumn, and water flows from the forever leaky skies, the forest blackens and gets wet from the bottom up, and in the ditch, silky fluff of a twig, the omnipresent fireweed sways. And an unkind wind, and half-light, and dried flowers hanging in the entryway.

It was glorious to be sick with you, because paper will endure any strain, because not a day without a tender letter... I loved many and everyone very much, but not for long - to be honest, while the line was entwined with tenderness and the awkward verse languished with passion. I will forget you, as I forgot them, because the words have disappeared. There is grass in the yard, firewood on the grass.

On the firewood is a sad polyethylene. The horizon is sad without change, and an aspen sticks out like the finger of fate. The household members trudge for mushrooms, put on jackets and boots, tea fluff draws circles over the road. Occasionally a pale autumn ray crawls out from behind the clouds and hides back in a hurry, like a chick in bird cherry branches.

We will see each other again in ten years, I will say casually "hello-hello", and again I will painfully not understand why I cried so much in the semi-darkness, flew so much, suffered, could not sleep, was pierced by a damp shiver through and through, and the brakes squealed, bursting, and where were my eyes looking, and in some bar or cafe for a sad drink I will drink a pluperfect.

That's all. The gestalt is completely complete. The day after tomorrow - dust, vanity, asphalt, the eternal beauty of clear lines, poplars, trams - and dumbness. And the old house forgotten for the winter will rot under the snow, creak with a log, a fool-mouse will settle under the log, will stomp loudly in the thick silence, will rummage around the house and gnaw a pack of letters thrown into the chest of drawers ...