Злыдота - Час чаши - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Hour of the bowl

The words of Vladimir Mikushevich

The dead hour of the bowl, when, in the enchanting of this world, dreams are embodied, seductive, like everything fleeting, for eternity gets along only with eternity, and a dream for the apostle is sweeter than his san, while one in the garden is awake by God's Son.

Dream of chariot, kolobok-roller, axis-colossus;

There is a krinnitsa of the rapture of the non -bored, over which the cruise cries are circled, refuting the curved producers;

Dreaming of a wicker of impaired flowers, whose bug petals, of which Sivillino is composed of prophecy;

The string of faithful adherents from the upper reaches to the last achievement is dreaming, where everyone sacrifices himself for each.

There is a trivne, into which the sovereign is clothed, a guest on earth, extinguishing the lady of the soothsayers;

Dreaming is a fairway, a conductor to heaven.

The forearm is dreaming, a chaste sister of Siring, whose melody Sirin Paradise drowned;

The harlot dreams of whose nudity, in repentance, beaming, lights snow;

Dreaming is a day: east, archer-random.

Dreaming a right hand over a drowning in the void;

There is a tomb in which, like a mummy, death is spitting;

There is a border behind which the earth, bought for thirty silverniks, while the insomnia is gray on a tree in a loop ...

And in reality tin olives in the garden and a bowl, each sip from which is a nail.

But only the bloody sweat would remain when this was passed, for without it the human race is a rabble, and for the sake of it - a bunch.