Get a gramophone, granddaughter, Let the longing press in a dead loop. Let it ring harmoniously Sweep over the loose earth
And bogged down forever in the clouds. We stayed with you, you and I. The truth is clearly not in frisky legs And not in a pile of someone else's linen.
Start, let's make the brownies laugh The sound of broken lyres since ancient times. If there is no place in the world of the living, Maybe to hell with such a wonderful world?
Moths fly to the fire The backs are torn under the cunning whip; If you live - then, alas, in spite of. It is no longer easy to see:
Where is thorny, where is linden bush. Hear from the very depths of centuries Like bones a hideous crunch Turns into songs of the gods.
We'll bust, granddaughter. You hold on. Will not the unsteady firmament reject If you are more than life And more important than cruel death?
Doing Good Unrequited Under the pressure of the gaze-pincers. Silver blinds the eyes of people, Not seeing the main things.
Wonderful, dashing chime It will be heard from a mile away. Start, granddaughter, gramophone, Let the nocturnes fly into the void ©Ная Цой
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