ГРОТ - 12. Все по-старому - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

There, if you sit on your belly, you won’t be able to pull it out with four of you. Bombila slowly drives into the courtyards with obscenities. From these doors I fluttered out into the world for the first time, My cosmodrome, a repository of non-residential apartments. Remember, put out the candle with dry fingers. I don’t want to, so I’ll stay and spend the night. I’ll review everything I saw in the window at night, Other people’s kitchens, light in a stagnant veil. At this moment the city is really dear to me. A constellation of blue-green lights and burners. People can't sleep, like cold birds, But the gas doesn't warm up, it only smokes the enamel. And everyone seems to understand that something is wrong, but the native outskirts just won’t let go. The number of disasters captured as an indicator of strength. Where does this admixture of terpila come from in the mentality? The microdistrict is like an old textbook, Flipping through your fingers, it started to bleed. I pulled out everything that was medicinal, only the drawings on the crusts remained. Our faces are in the ruins of schools, And I look away guiltily. And they don’t care where I went, They care that I went somewhere. Today there was no scream that was rushing through the window from the streets. And who would poke his head in? The zealous winds only blew Four lanterns across eight old courtyards, In the twilight, with the creaking of iron, they alone speak, How autumn brought us death on the first page Eleven years ago, how the small world became empty, Surely how rusty doors store the forgotten, And how we quickly escaped from here , to the far shore The area is covered with snow, washed by wild rains, Broken dreams await their owners under the slabs The windows eagerly welcome every stranger And everyone here believes that the one who is released will return The gray snow sags somewhere in early March, trampled through the slush from huts to the pawnshop Only in the evenings headlights flash past in the distance. There is a dead end sign. Here everything is the same. The microdistrict is like an old textbook, Flipping through the fingers, the shrouds bleed. I pulled out everything that was medicinal, only the drawings on the crusts remained. Our faces are in the ruins of schools, And I look away guiltily. And they don’t care where I went, They care that I went somewhere.