voice of loneliness - Париж - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Dear, you remember, we talked at night about who we would like to become? You dreamed of writing poetry and being a florist, growing roses on the roof and selling them in love couples so that your flowers give your beloved singers and artists to be bought by old women in the park. Where are these dreams now?

Dear, could you help me find the one who shouted to the ignoramuses:

"Give the dream the right to exist!"? I lost it in the crowd of the same passers -by. Your children's, innocent love.

Somehow between the lines of the book about the king who destroyed France, I found your notes, and it suddenly seemed to me that, you were born in another century in Paris, then could become a poetess. Say, like Tsvetaeva. You would be called "ladies" or "Madmoiselle", your poems would be more valuable than wine from the cold cellar of the restaurant on the coast, and you would have lifted the people to your ears, dancing without shoes, and the nototer ladies would know your evening routes ...

I would write letters to you and would receive answers that this city, God, is full of aromas of spirits and fresh baguettes, that you are in love with him, in his streets, perhaps in me too. And your flowers would smell of Paris, even if you return to this cold and inhospitable Moscow, these flowers would be proof of your subtle nature, but ...

Dear, have you broken?

I see in your empty eyes a starfall of disappointments and ashes of scorched hopes. You look for support with your eyes, but you will never find it, because your rod has always been love for the beautiful, and now there are only memories of this. You wanted to be a florist, remember? I wanted to write poetry.

Dear ... Do you remember your dreams?