Рома Талалуев - Не бойся, милая, это как смерть из телека - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Don’t be afraid, dear, it’s like death on TV, you’ll be resurrected, you’ll come out somewhere in a century, because it’s not even a virus, it’s just hysterical, it’s Saturday morning, you need to sober up already. It's time to go, in the bag for the road there are sandwiches, a comb, a mirror - God, who is this? Well, calmly, sensibly, raising your head, stop, that’s right, don’t rush, it’s so good - you can’t see either a naked heart or a pink, unsuffering soul.

This is how these almost autumn, almost completely alive empty days pass, which begin with resurrection, ending as thousands of days before them, you can’t hold them in your fingers - they are too slippery, a mediocre shameless time, you arrive in the evening at Moskovskaya, and leave from Avtovo and yesterday. Friends live, even if it’s bad, but somehow they suffer, and the worse you are, look for yourself too, one pumps up his muscles and works out, the other, now, makes men fall in love with her. Go wash the dishes - that’s a lot of work, go to the forest, sleep it off, eat, laugh. And you stand with your teeth, grab the world and think that it will hold you.

You think that you are the only one, such a copper-legged funny colossus who wants to dive into her icy eyes and hide in the red dance of her hair. That you alone are silent to her with ragged breathing and pray to the unkissed face, that you are ready to burn for her fluttering, for her breathtaking hoarseness. She is always together, always with her retinue, and she will run through your ashes. And the worst thing is that she is truly more beautiful than anything beautiful on earth.

And what can I tell you - the dishes are washed, it’s an angry dark five in the morning outside the windows, that thread, the nerve from the tooth, alive, sensitive, curled up in a hot, sick ball, which those who believe For a little while, they shyly call her “love” in her notes. How many times - and past, and the thread stretches and rubs against meaningless words, and so someday it will not remain - and then what will you order to exist? Then, then, then, and while everything is foaming, floundering in its pain in captivity, don’t touch it, let it dry out, still have time to check it, pull the string again. And you will cry again, you will bleed everything, you will feel how it trembles inside.

But now you will straighten up. You'll straighten out. You will get on the bus. You will get up. And you will begin to live.