Татьяна Дятлик - Рождество под стеной - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

They come out of bright shops and boutiques. In the hands of many packages with gifts. They make up long queues in supermarkets. After all, the new year has passed, and tomorrow the long-awaited Christmas. They are in a hurry. Still so much affairs. At the sight of showcases, the eyes are scattered. Such a variety. You can buy so much. If only time and money was enough. They are not bothering a strong wind, fiercely rushing in the face. It does not interfere with severe frost and heavy snowfall. They warmly dressed and go in a taxi. Go home where friends are waiting for them. The soul is a festive mood. So easy, joyful. Who are they? This is us. Those who call people.

On the same street, not far from the subway. Under the concrete wall of the high-rise building - a group of people. Snow is so thick that they will not immediately notice. These are the so-called garbage of society. Only the views of contempt, sometimes pity they rush. But not understanding, not love, not support. They are not afraid to rummage in the garbage. Do not be afraid to eat rot, stupid food. They are silent. They are not talking about. Yes, bums. For those who call people, there is no time to think about them. Work. A family. Children. Banal excuses. Why take care of them, if you can just pass by, pulling the eyes to the other side?

Yes, this strange group under the wall was homeless. Four men and woman. Or maybe a girl ... it is difficult to determine. So her face was dismissed by frost, visible beatings, and alcohol. Her face. It has long lost the human face. The forehead was almost absent, being elected large wrinkles. The eye, in fact, was not visible. The reason for this was blue bags and pinkish swelling. Cheeks, unnaturally red and sagging, pointed to hidden illness and malnutrition. In a wide mouth, not all teeth. Particularly lips looked very pitiful, in which blood again performed again. The picture was complemented by the desolted long, rare hair. She sat on a wet cardboard and frightened his knees softly, hugging his knees, barely swayed. Clothes made up old tights and rudely knitted sweater, dressed on a naked body. The prickly wind permeated all its emaciated creature. Crying was interrupted by a bronchial cough. No one knew what her grief is. Maybe she was robbed, or her child died, and maybe something badly hurts. But it was something bad. Something is unresarison. Such that there was not even tears. And exemption. Yes, and physically it would not be enough for hysteria. Just moan, quiet howl. But from this sound, those who are called people becoming terribly. Other bums made unsuccessful attempts to console her. One man, in the long-losing color of the jacket, tried to pour her vodka. But he could not warm and lead this woman. In the Christmas morning under the wall it was no longer ...

Of course, we can explain the actions of homeless. They could not offer anything. And to sacrifice your clothes meant to die. Such is the law of the street. But how to find a reasonable explanation to the action of others, those who call people? They are fed, dressed and healthy. They have money. But they accelerate a step passing by and turning away. And immediately try to forget, erased from memory seen.

And the next day they get up early in a warm house to find dear gifts under the Christmas tree, eat a festive breakfast. They never recognize that on the eve of Christmas, at night, an unknown woman died under a cold concrete wall of a high-rise building ... a man ... A woman who was not so blessed as they ... who we are, those who call people?!