Текст песни Иосиф Бродский - но той недели нет в календаре.

Kazhinny time on this very spot
     I am reminded of his bride.
     I went into the tavern, ordering two hundred.

The river runs at my feet, infection.
     I tell her mind: beige.
     The eye - tear. But I see the edge of the eye
     Foundry Bridge and the silhouette of the barge.

My fiancee loved each other.
     I once knew a little something they were not killed.
     But strict Code. And what is my merit,
     that sustained character. However, I am drinking.

I drank like a fish. If a plant
     not expelled, it would have rotted on the vine.
     When I see the phone booth,
     I come in and sometimes call.

Good friend and we bazlaem other.
     He tells me: How are you, Ivanov?
     What am I? I am silent. He fright
     Zaidi, shouting, look at the kids.

They could have done I told her. But in fact,
     they did it. And the point, and dash.
     And I shout back: Next week.
     But that is not the week in the calendar.

The hand where I hold is now half a tin,
     I clutching her dress through the buffer.
     And so on. In the corner on the ottoman.
     The impression is that yesterday.

Mosley, overflowing pants
     They lay on the bed, all in wool.
     And the throat wants to shout loudly: Bitches!
     But for some reason he says: I'm sorry.

For what? Who? When I hear the seagulls,
     the sharp cry me shudder.
     The same sound when it ends,
     although then still mumbles: Do not touch.

I knew her as well before - the whole.
     But life flies, forgetting about the brakes.
     And I'll take another bottle of white.
     It is like the color of her eyes.