h0lden caulfield - поле мертвых пчел - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Imagine the dead bees that were undergoing a pollen to the hive.

They fall among the flowers, on the field of tulips.

In a house that no one has touched, there are no chairs, people do not sit.

for every unhealthy house

One dead bee in a bud

red, white, yellow .. yellow bodies are not visible.

The wings froze in statics, like pudding,

sway from behind the wind along with the petals, like babies sleeping in cradle,

Politsy are sucked under layers of the last pollen in their life.

Gentle yellow dreams in small modest bodies, who knew only the direct road of the hard workers.

From a house, similar to a ball for American football to a field, hungry with a mirror club ball, the fragments of which are dispelled over the ocean.

It’s like the ashes of a person who has eaten all the reproductions of the pen.

Quiet hour in tombs. All the buzzing went from the fields.

The face of a dumb, speaking with the help of fingers, leading pillows along the abdies of sleeping and a stem of tulips.

Around the house, which no one was striking, long poppies grew that were reder than the back of the slaves of slaves under the blows: all lipsticks and dresses only dreamed ..

In a summer evening, two painfully pale teenager with skin stretched over the ribs, like a polyethylene film, will climb the poppy juice.

And then they will run, pushing tulips with broken legs, crushing yellow abdomen into the blood, pulling out the stems of the armful of poppies.

They will run around the field of dead bees.