Alysia Lis - я убиваю... - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Mom, did you know that I love the rustling of pages, coffee and autumn? People are afraid that I kill birds. I'm twenty-eight.

Mom, you know that I hate people who pass by too often. I don't read letters or news. I kill. It's incurable.

I can't sing or play with words, or jump like a rabbit. Mom, I often have headaches. I'm melancholic.

I'm often sad, I withdraw into my own knowledge and indulge in useless self-digging.

I'm so often wrong in my questions that I ask others. Listen, Mom, I can tell the difference between rain and dew, and I don't watch disgusting melodramas.

I often dream of falling and flying like a bird, swimming like a fish and burning like a moth. Like a phoenix, without the right to be reborn. In general, I still dream of dying.

You know, you can probably be proud of me. It was not in vain that you allowed me to live once. I found the one for whom I would break, I would lay this whole world at her feet. I dedicate crooked poems and prose to her, she seems to like it, she is in no hurry to leave. I paint her roses with the blood of dead birds. What a beauty, it's a pity that her mouth is sewn up. I constantly talk to her about strange phrases, about kilometers of madness, emptiness. I have read a lot of her stories and she has amazing dreams.

My paintings for her are blood on the walls, soft doors successfully hide the sound of someone's mistakes. What cretins we are... Our communication is only a knock through the wall.

These stories are just the delirium of my strange fantasies. These pictures are not visible to her through the walls. We have a week left before euthanasia. It turns out that we are seriously ill.

Mom, I am writing to you to find out the decision. I know that tears are streaming down your face. I wonder if you give me permission to be in this new world from the beginning to the end? I need serious medical help. That's probably what I came for. I don't want to be faceless like these vegetables that hit their foreheads on the cold floor.

I want to live. At least somewhere, but differently. This is not life, but torture for you and me. Mom, you know that I won't make it home. He missed me, alas, fate.

In general, I hope that you agree with me. Death is more merciful than these medical torments. You will sign, right? After all, I dream of you so often, with a blade near my numb hands. Mommy, darling, don't be too upset. No, don't get depressed and don't cry. I will try to come to terms with it and you try. This hospital is now an executioner before me.

You remember me as a loner, the one who was never with other people. The one who clumsily composed empty lines and killed, killed so talentedly.

Mom, you knew that I did not remember faces, firs and pines. People are afraid that I kill birds. I am twenty-eight.