Текст песни Анна Ахматова - Венок мертвым. 3. Памяти М. А. Булгакова

That's what I do you, instead of burial roses
Instead of smoking incense;
You are so severely he lived until the end of informed
Perfect contempt.
You drank wine you like no joke
And the walls in the stifling suffocating,
And you're a terrible guest to himself admitted
And it was left alone.
And there's you, and all around is silent
About mournful and high life
Only my voice like a flute sound
And your silent funeral feast.
Oh, who dared to believe that loony me
I, mourners days dead,
I, smoldering over low heat,
All lost, all zabyvshey -
We'll have to remember one who, full of energy,
And the bright ideas and the will,
As if yesterday said to me,
Hiding trembling mortal pain.

1940 Fountain House