Текст песни Антон Гуфи - По чёрному-чёрным, по белому-белым

That's funny, - inadvertently brought himself to the limit
After all, no one is aware of the degree of deterioration of the body -
In which the soul and the mind always fight, when neither she nor him?
In essence, it turned out that not fighting is harder than starting a war.

Throw off the rag wall from the picture: on black - black, and on white - white.
But in general, a very neatly circled soul along the contours - in chalk
And the colorless ink that he squeezed out of himself, squeezed without a trace.
Conceived initially without the possibility of an answer - without words a mystery ...

And nightmares dream out his eyes with evil birds
And according to tradition - even knights cannot defend themselves against them.
But he tries to breathe evenly - this is an echo of his indifference,
When dreams first died, which were undoubtedly considered the best.

But ... Something again does not converge, something stubbornly does not coincide.
The image of a candle that melts without fire, that does not even guess and does not know
About him virtual, - almost about him, but still about a dissimilar double,
The last entry is completely lost in the last diary.

He’s still older, much - about nine thoughts approximately,
Although there is little left of him to say that everything is reliable.
But again he sends: "To hell with everything ..." and begins to laugh -
For him, no one can die again and be born again.

All this is painfully familiar, right? Is all this familiar, a lie?
But only the truth can sparkle before the trembling seizes
And random number generation is activated in his head, and His Majesty the case.
He ruthlessly nearly killed himself, tortured himself to the limit.

And immediately began to open fresh, not yet closed wounds,
Trying to cover them with all the flaws and unsuccessfully unfinished nedoromany.
In an attempt to create reasons - to call yourself human again - is not easy,
Not just because a high level of animal growth has been achieved.

Ah, here he is - the long-awaited, traditional (daily) parade:
He put on his favorite shirt, which is worn with sleeves back.
He is always allowed out of turn to where his renounced chamber,
It’s a pity ... but for the whole universe - it is a bit small.

Reached the reward - he and an angel born to be a scoundrel,
With a crumpled secret and hidden deep beneath the face.
And with unspecified gestures, everything indicated a dusty obituary -
Do not make out, this is either its end, or a kind of epilogue.

Or is it forensics - forget everything that you once saw in a movie.
The word is a bullet, and she is known to be a fool, whom to kill - she does not care.
Well, here you have a dead poet, who is still aiming at the living
And you won’t immediately understand if it’s written about a villain or a hero.

But alas ... Not at all about this - the essence ... it is between punctuation marks,
The meaning was invented much later, after all the efforts and efforts.
What were shown in the twenty-fifth frame (no, this is not a television program),
And proportionally the opposite - a solid line on his cardiogram.

He still runs away from shadows created by himself,
From them sharply sobers up, from them it becomes so drunk so quickly.
Mumbles indistinctly, awkwardly turning his thoughts to “those and not those”,
Again barely falling asleep in the void that occupied the four walls.

I managed to make a dead loop before this, but somehow past the loops.
The last ship has been plowing through the desert for years, a ship that has lost its target.
Flint about a tear - sets fire to an endless wick from the very end,
Chasing letters a second, words in miles, forming a whirlpool, followed by calm.

Unknown paintings are created for anyone: in black and black, in white and white,
The inconspicuous, invisible remnants on the fingers of the chalk
And from ink, as from two extremes of the same, but different color.
In black and black, in white and white, the paintings are letters of the dead poet.