Текст песни Белая гвардия - В контексте вечности

I sit in the kitchen on an old chair in a cold house ,
Laugh at the phrase - say , a man is not the place makes .
Life is primitive , as primitive poems in the album,
They write schoolgirl even handwriting in the senior class .

As if the morning. In a frying pan scorched toast .
Elevator rumbles . Aged Kettle croaks hoarsely .
The neighbor left out the trash , steps behind the wall ,
And forever it seems like breakfast in front .

Above the roof Boeing loosens heavy clouds plow.
Chilled dove tormented beak crust of bread .
Forgotten doll on a bench looking with dismay
At infinity , hopeless mediocrity sky.

Lies in the newspapers became more expensive . soared fee
On shamelessly vulgar cud airtime .
The war in Ossetia spreads black blot ,
Crawling like caterpillars , tanks on the world map .

Show on map : that's Gori and Tskhinvali here ,
There were people went to visit , seething passion.
One shot, Good God , the other blew up .
Murder - noun synonymous with power.

Includes music , drowning grief .
Through sobs of mourners breaks moan Caucasus
Polyphony beautiful mountains , sea surprise ...
Death unreal . In the context of eternity - just a phase .

Scourge of bread on a wet edge. Well, what can you do?
Screaming so loud , that was heard throughout the universe ?
The thought of the cramped inside and the creeps .
Scourge of the brow . Imperfect. Imperfect ...