Текст песни Антон Духовской - Я пишу тебе это письмо, прощаясь...

I am writing this letter to you, goodbye ...
Because - getting old. Earth rotates,
It saves me a smile. But it is unlikely - Bole.
Multiply the pain, I'll stay with the pain
and with a smile. This is, perhaps, the means
wait for death, without falling into childhood,
without falling into the gray river youth ...
Only in the dead sea of ​​melancholy runs.

All broken, like a match, not blushing red
twinkle. And try to be closer to you
turn this unholy dalyu,
trying not worth it. Rains were crying
two weeks. Now the window is cool,
but not wet. My poems let tumble
but you ... Soon the lines will freeze in an envelope,
if locked in the soul of the body to death.

I know beforehand what line
It will be the last in this poem. Dot
or perhaps more accurately, the final is not close,
but it is already evident. And a ghost
the recipient is recognized by itself
the latest. Playing with destiny,
As is known, usually it goes sideways.
But I have to tell you this ... God bless!

I live there now, where the sand and pine trees.
As told by doctors. Only one thing is unbearable -
dull eyes in the morning is not enough light.
Nothing helped. Scat summer
horizon by the collar. And in the bargain
the first snow in no hurry to suburban malls
White dancing a waltz. The rest - is tolerated.
Only here, if someone passes by
old house where I am today is hidden,
I know - you do not ... The solution spots
yellow maples on a gray canvas landscape.
I say goodbye to you, not even tasted
Taste the meeting ... I was not scared,
that the meeting does not hasten the dawn of another,
not afraid of that summer as a sink into oblivion.
It is necessary to cool the water in a glass
forgotten on the porch, but the smell of apples,
yes sunset, pointing us to the west.

I'd like the sea. Now, perhaps,
there is stormy. But the owner of a tavern
still remembers me. And as it so happens,
I would come back - it could get drunk
wonderful red wine. Landscapes
there is still the same - marinas, empty beaches ...
All seasons are closed, and even the dead.
Falling asleep, worn out from his eyes to banish
the contour of the mountains. But the presence of hot, however,
and feel in the room. Like a dog,
looking for a corner where people smell. melancholy,
like a pendulum, coughing noise tide.

My friend the artist ... It seems, however,
at the beginning of the novel. one night
in the workshop of his chilly, huddled in a corner,
I watched as the traces of coal reserves
on a sheet. Web fragile lines
tremble someone's life. And the black frost
Coal crumb long cast shadows
on the sand and in the shoots dry plants.
What is colorless - draw seven colors.
I do not know what it is ... I get light.

Never ... My tongue is so mediocre poor
to explain to you, as the dawn was pale
early in the morning when you have circled me,
like birds, seven letters. And because they have developed
three breaths, three cavities, three syllables -
never ... And the road leading into the distance
He completed fence from narrow planks.
And the hope is that more will be resurrected
dreams in which we will be together with you,
suddenly broke, pounding surf wave
the rock. Never. Never. Listen,
as the creeps with the sounds of old age in the soul,
how becoming ridiculously easy,
how life ends like a handful of millet
glide between his fingers and disappear like
Eraser erases an inscription. And this word
I repeated diligently until nightfall,
He repeated like a prayer, like "Hail, Father!"
repeated role as an actor learns to premiere.
Never. Never. Never ... Believe me,
it's all about just that. And, out of boredom,
write "never" in the notebook field.

Do not play more in this game with me.
I do not joke, you'd be my wife,
five summers and winters. I do not believe in the game.
Whenever I see a needle trees
in the snow - I'm not having fun. This is a sign
end games. And save a whim,
like a child, it will not succeed now.
I soon shall find a watering in the desert,
than in a crowd look a busy note
those who will be with me next day.

Are you tired to count to five, you get tired.
You're my bride will never be.
In any of the hotels, tired of running