Kotone - А. Кудряшева. Мама на даче... - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Mom in the country, the key on the table, breakfast can not be done. Soon, eight years, in August will be nine. In August, nine, seven on the clock, the sky is easy and flat, the sun left fading strips in the hair. Squeeze a sleepy fragment in the palm of your hand, and take it through your fingers. Vitka from the tenth floor calls to swim again. We must rush from all legs and eyes - they will suddenly run away, leave. Vitka finished the fourth grade - that is, almost old. Shorts with a T -shirt is a simple outfit, take an apple for a afternoon snack. Vitka will teach me how to dive, he promised, I remember. To the river, the road is extinct, burned and familiar. Dusty legs are like mom's moms. Today we have such heat - the leaves are just like rags. Maybe then we will play, I will ask you to be hide and seek. Vitka - he is kind, one into one boy from Jules Verne. I will ask me to drive me, they will probably be allowed. The evening will begin, should get dark. Day until the end of the week. I turn to the wall. STO, ninety -nine.

Mom in the country. Bike. Take an exam tomorrow. The sun licks the abstract with gentle eyes. Morning morning and sit all night, wait for the coming summer. In August, I will already be a student, today - neither one nor this. The bread is semi -shaking and cheese from a knife, breakfast from sleep is tasteless. Vitka from the tenth floor is now in the third year. He knows all smart professors, writes programs in the company. Hood, ironic and Chernobrov, just a hero from the film. He writes notes to my sister, gives flowers from the pay, but I swim faster and compose better. It's just that my sister is light face, I am harder and larger, we climb onto the porch and start the snake. It seems that they leave for the night, I spend on a train. The river rustles, rustles at the feet, now it is waist -deep. Seventy -eight, seventy -seven, crying with my back to the composition. Let them hide, well, I won’t look for them all.

Mom in the country. The head is buzzing. Sleeping. The cat settled on her chest, the sun on the blanket. Cups, palms and sweaters, coffee, pray, weld. Has anyone seen me yesterday? Better don't say. Let it be a big secret of little debauchery, everyone was drunk, a weightless, warm, with a warm breath of his brother, the throat is hoarse from the chatter, the ashes flew from the balcony, all with each other - and everyone is alone, alive and rebellious. If we drop off the ruble, breakfast will come to our house, Lord, how I love you all, a rainbow on the palms. Street in sunny lace, Vitka, wash the plates. You can wallow and come to life. You can go to the river. I will catch you and conquer you, I will cut me down, shave. With a nose in a broken bark. Thirty -four, thirty ...

Mom in the photo. Keys in the castle. Eight hours before the summer. The sun on the walls, on the backpack, in old sandals. Sleeping paws through the square, and there is nothing to go anywhere. Vitka in America. I am in Moscow. River in distant childhood. The apple was eaten, the composition went away, somewhere it goes to Nice, I begin to count from a hundred, my life is from one. Fighting, crying with her in unison, clowns in the arena. “Twenty -one,” I mutter through a dream. “Forty,” Time laughs. Forty - and the first gray hair, forty -one - to the hospital. Twenty-one-I live alone, twenty: eyes-beads, legs in scratches, a demon in the rib, thoughts run in a bout, someone is waiting for me in the yard, someone in the tenth. Ten - I finish the fourth grade, breakfast can not be done. It is necessary to rush from all legs and eyes. There will be nine in August. Eight - carry the keys on the neck, melt the anthem in the sunny ...

Three. Two. One. I'm going to look. God help me.