Текст песни Александр Васильев - Конец прекрасной эпохи

Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
a second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape his own brain,
myself giving clothes, go down to the kiosk
for the evening paper.

The wind drives the leaves. The old bulbs are dimly lit
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the help of puddles generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, amalgam scraping.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad regions everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
walls of prisons, coats; toilets of brides - whiteness
New Year's Eve, drinks, seconds hands.
Passerine sweats and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan customs. Underwear. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden hot water bottles.

This land is immovable. Presenting the gross volume
cast iron and lead, you shake your head awkwardly,
remember the old power with bayonets and Cossack whips.
But eagles sit down, like a magnet, on an iron mixture.
Even the chairs of the wicker are held here
on bolts and on nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And space sticks out the price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things,
properties of both that it seeks in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

To live in an era of achievement, having a sublime temper,
unfortunately, it is difficult. Beauty dress up,
you see what you were looking for, not the new marvelous divas.
And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly kept here,
But the expanded world must somewhere narrow, and then -
here is the end of perspective.

Whether the map of Europe was stolen by the agents of the authorities,
then five of the six remaining parts of the world
is too far away. Either a kind fairy
above me, but I can not escape from here.
I pour myself Cahors - do not shout to the servant -
yes cheshu katofey ...

Whether a bullet in the temple, as if in a place of error by finger,
or to tug on the sea by a new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
the locomotive with the ship - all the same you will not burn out of shame:
Like the shuttle on the water, will not leave a trace on the tracks
the wheel of a locomotive.

What do they write in the newspapers in the section "From the courtroom"?
The verdict is enforced. Having looked here,
the man in the street will see through the glasses in the tin frame,
as a man lies down face by the brick wall;
but does not sleep. For scruple dream dreams
perforated.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times that are incapable of their common blindness
distinguish falling out of the cradles from the fallen cradles.
The white-eyed chude does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity the saucer is full, only there is nobody to turn the tables with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance to things of a dead end.
Not by the tree of the mind,
but spitting on the wall. And do not wake the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, do not snatch the feather from the bird.
The innocent head of all and the things that wait for an ax
Yes, the green laurel.

I.Brodsky December 1969