Текст песни Олег Митяев - По будним дням

On weekdays

On weekdays she goes to bed early,
With all the diligent France she gets a little light.
And there is only a shadow of the striped frame
And the smell of coffee, but it really is not.
  
And I walk up late Cherkov on the fence,
And I come only through the five sleep ticking darkness.
 And we lie in brocade desert sands near the sea,
Where reality does not meet.
  
It is a pity that the daily bustle of a narrow ribbon
Before darkness and oblivion separates us.
It is only me here so easily available in French
Hang out and eat cherries from Provence.
  
 And watch as the blue fades and as seabirds
Pecking spilled crashed minutes ringing.
 And wait until the last page perelistnet
 Last day. And it will be just a dream.