Текст песни Владимир Ланцберг - Рисунок

This is my boat,
the March water.
Sit in a boat
and swim there,
where a black trunks
dawns foggy light
where my canoe and go to sleep:
on the way there.

No,
Still there is one -
with bird that breast
that on my chest
hibernate -
up!
You see, the river floats
steam under a cloud,
if it lands
few...

This is my flute,
March muffled sound.
Relieve back flute
My pain is like a hand.
Again, like the order
here on the boat -
and fly ringtone
in summer, the river to the other.

There
the sun overhead.
Worn over the grass
sonorous voice
men.
To them
He flies off the sound of pipes.
This end of the road.
Echoes of his leave
eternity ...

In the early thawed patch vernal
in the predawn darkness uneven
wake up, crazy snowdrop
and stand, and call on the winter.
You are the first - and, as it were out of place.
You are a strange - and so one.
Hold on, my occasional soldier,
Your afternoon is to come ...

This is my room.
A white mist - a wall.
At night, all dark
frame thereon is visible.
Dormant my boat
framed on the wall.
At midnight, my boat,
You podplyvesh me ...

4 - 03.06.2004