lie still and be afraid that's what the wind is saying a spirit born of freud has revered been by many he'll point at all the things show that inside they're empty so kong in truth is king and now christened quentin
Метка: #english
seven swans eight seagulls one flamingo those birds are so silent it hurts mute they are as plácido domingo after gig on red square heinrich hertz in popov's telegram so pointless as a rookery of laughing owls final rain deferentially anoints us with a burning sunflower oil
at the end of the day with the sunset doors are closing squeaky like fish time goes down and space goes upwards and you'll stop being freebie you wish
strike drone spotting as a capital offense close your eyes enjoy the sound of thunder those who already tried just do not wonder why buanarotti stopped to fence
The deadline is not set yet, the calendar's silent still, But the sky whispers - alas, and each sunset's bitter with Foreboding, for whom will weep the church bell-ringer at dawn - So frightening to guess in the night. I would sleep - but there's no sleep, silence is ringing, ringing, As if a mosquito or as if a drawn bowstring, And the dim lanternship, the midnight blue aconite, Blooms in the dust of snow. To sob until morning, to sob at the damned lanterns, And to wait and not wait anymore, and to tread the black trace To the warehouses of memory into frenzy, till dawn So they go insane.
Перевод на английский текста Ольги Макеевой Еще не назначен срок, еще молчит календарь, Но небо шепчет – увы, и каждый закат горчит Предчувствием, и по ком всплакнет на заре звонарь – Так страшно гадать в ночи. Уснуть бы – но сна как нет, звенит тишина, звенит, Не то комаром, не то натянутой тетивой, И тусклое фонарье, полуночный аконит, Цветет в пыли снеговой. Рыдать до утра, рыдать на чертовые фонари, И ждать и не ждать уже, и в памяти закрома Протаптывать черный след до одури, до зари Так сходят с ума.
it doesn't tea it doesn't coffee even it doesn't rain on chilly winter night and it's so plain and real that marx was right and even left sometimes with russia kievan
young angels don't believe
in hell and heaven anymore
they know the truth
that apples are coming far from pines
oh well god is a bit of bore
so plain and smooth
just snow this part of the world cover country with ice you know it squirted enough now with blood and delusions avenging archangel has curled into fireball nice and clean end of world void's calling god's bluff when unreal truth comes
a wishing bone will grant the final wish a chicken will be borne by plymouth rock by both halfs of it and flying fish will crack the skull and eve will start to smoke
never stopping in constantinople made unstable time in istanbul clock and space are just that just a scopal libel-label of mystical school where pupils are told to be modest and are finally hidden in hell so short of the fall latter august that you were unable to tell