Вера Полозкова - стихи - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

He will be terribly easy to laugh with him, it is said to drink, tears; In it, the man has not yet been acquired; She looks at his eyelashes - almost a tigress, hugging the cub.

He is beautiful, funny, his eyes are pistachio; It always shuts up suddenly, always lyrical; I want it so that it even grows slightly; The fingers have a sharp electricity.

He is a little unhealthy; His gaze is sapphire, like Wilde has in that fairy tale; Highly Poparna his speech; He is drawn to shoot, photograph - well, immortal, perpetuate.

He is no one and all - these teeth clang, they hang on their neck, without restraining sobs. She burns in herself this nursery, this fucking thirst for complete possession, and is jealous - unreasonably, but desperately. Even more, realizing his lawlessness. They go together; outskirts; wildness; Silence, hot summer afternoon, grunting gravel.

She would only have to go with him, listen to how he grassked, watch him, “here I will hide - you will not find me”; She is older than him and also almost beautiful. Only hopeless.

She reads something to him, a little mannerly; The sun smashes two of their ovals with a condensed milk. She sobs-sorry, she was nervous. Peresthahu.

I was waiting for you, she said, I knew how you look, how you laugh, how you throw a strand from your forehead; I have everything that is neither love - then a miscarriage, I already thought - everything, I could not stand it, a bustle. I conceive - and after a month I will wake up and fight - it is like black hot iodine and resin from the inside. And here, look, - the living was born. Squints. Smiles. Learn.

He nods; He is both sad and exhausting; It rubs her nose in her shoulder, hugs, barks. He does not love her, probably since January - but we are tormented by the guilty tenderness of a high school student.

She will disappear soon; Both converged in the granted dead end; "I am accidental and stranger to you." He conducts her, help her to carry a suitcase; She will squeeze him in his arms, leaving.

And some kind of conductor or cleaning lady, looking at how she froze the Lot’s wife-stops, grunts quietly, wrinkles tiredly-and for some reason will be toil until the evening.