Текст песни ГРОТ - 12. Все по-старому
Просмотров: 17
0 чел. считают текст песни верным
0 чел. считают текст песни неверным
0 чел. считают текст песни верным
0 чел. считают текст песни неверным
На этой странице находится текст песни ГРОТ - 12. Все по-старому, а также перевод песни и видео или клип.
There, if you sit down with your belly, you can't stretch out four, Bombila slowly rushes with mats into the courtyards. From these doors, for the first time, I flew into the world, My cosmodrome, a repository of non-residential apartments. I don't want to extinguish the candle with dry fingers and I will stay and spend the night. I will revise everything that I saw in the window at night, Other people's kitchens, the light in a stagnant veil. At this moment the city is really dear to me Constellation of blue-green lights and burners. People cannot sleep, like chilled birds, But the gas does not warm, only the enamel smokes. And everyone seems to understand - something is not right, Only the native outskirts do not let go. The number of grave disasters as an indicator of strength. Where does this admixture of terpily come from in the mentality? The microdistrict is like an old textbook, Flipping his fingers into the blood is shattered. I pulled out everything that was curative, There were only drawings on the crusts. Our faces are in the ruins of schools, And I avert my eyes guiltily. And it doesn't matter to them where I have gone, It matters to them that I have gone somewhere. Today there was no shout that bursts through the window from the streets. And who will stick it? Zealous winds only blew On eight old courtyards four lanterns, In the twilight, squeaking iron, they alone speak, How autumn brought us death on the first leaf Eleven years ago, how a small world was empty True how the forgotten rusty doors keep the forgotten And how we broke away from here faster , to the distant shore The area is covered with snow, washed by wild rains, Broken dreams await their owners under the slabs Windows greedily greet every stranger And everyone here believes that the one who is released will return Gray snow subsides somewhere in early March, Trampled in slush from huts to the pawnshop Only in the evenings in the distance the headlights flicker past By the sign there is a dead end. Here everything is the same. Microdistrict is like an old textbook, Flipping his fingers into the blood is shattered. I pulled out everything that was curative, There were only drawings on the crusts. Our faces are in the ruins of schools, And I avert my eyes guiltily. And it doesn't matter to them where I have gone, It matters to them that I have gone somewhere.
Контакты