Текст песни Канцлер Ги - Раймонд VII
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Он сегодня дома, он сегодня один.
Он немного болен, немного устал.
Сам себе трубадур, сам себе господин.
Он коньяк с кагором зачем-то смешал.
А за окном темно, смотрит в форточку ночь:
«И с какой это радости парень напился...»
А ему, бедняге, уж ничем не помочь,
Он устал быть тем, кем сегодня родился.
Он забыл, как люди включают на кухне газ,
И чужую боль заглушил цитрамоном.
Он глядит на стены и видит родной Прованс,
Где когда-то он звался графом Раймоном..
Он вернулся на землю сквозь дни и года,
Семь столетий назад безвозвратно ушедший.
Вспоминает об этом Раймон иногда,
А друзья говорят про него – сумасшедший.
И снова битва идет для него каждый день,
Только ныне масштаб поражений неравен
От былого осталась лишь зыбкая тень –
Там Тулуза сдана, здесь завален экзамен…
И Раймон Седьмой допивает остывший чай,
И снимает морфином незримые узы.
И идет по утру он молитвы свои читать
А католический храм альбигойской Тулузы.
Возвращаясь назад, он неспешно идет,
Игнорируя огненный глаз светофора,
Ибо знает, что знамя его упадет,
И растопчут его крестоносцы Монфора.
И отбывает он вновь в летний свой гарантен,
Заблудившись в сети бесконечных тропинок,
Ищет отдыха в россыпях телеантенн,
Веря в грустную ложь разноцветных картинок.
И Раймон Седьмой печально глядит в экран,
Заполняя времени стертые лузы
И болят на погоду призраки старых ран,
Что получены им на полях под Тулузой.
He is at home today, he is alone today.
He is a little sick, a little tired.
He is a troubadour to himself, a master himself.
He mixed cognac with Cahors for some reason.
And outside the window is dark, looking at the window window:
"And with what joy this guy got drunk ..."
And he, poor fellow, can not help,
He is tired of being what he was born today.
He forgot how people turn on gas in the kitchen,
And someone else's pain was drowned out by citramon.
He looks at the walls and sees his native Provence,
Where once he was called Earl Raimon ..
He returned to earth through the days and years,
Seven centuries ago, irrevocably gone.
Raymond remembers this sometimes,
And friends say about him - crazy.
And again the battle goes for him every day,
Only now the scale of lesions of inequalities
From the past there was only a shaky shadow -
There Toulouse was handed over, an exam is over here ...
And Raymond the Seventh finishes the cooled tea,
And removes the morphine invisible bonds.
And he goes in the morning, he reads his prayers
And the Catholic temple of Albigensian Toulouse.
Returning back, he slowly walks,
Ignoring the fiery eye of the traffic light,
For he knows that his banner will fall,
And the crusaders of Montfort will trample on them.
And he departs again in his summer guarantor,
Lost in the network of endless paths,
He is looking for rest in placers of television antennas,
Believing in the sad lie of colorful pictures.
And Raymond Seventh looks sadly at the screen,
Filling time erased pockets
And the weather ghosts of old wounds hurt,
What they got in the fields near Toulouse.
He is a little sick, a little tired.
He is a troubadour to himself, a master himself.
He mixed cognac with Cahors for some reason.
And outside the window is dark, looking at the window window:
"And with what joy this guy got drunk ..."
And he, poor fellow, can not help,
He is tired of being what he was born today.
He forgot how people turn on gas in the kitchen,
And someone else's pain was drowned out by citramon.
He looks at the walls and sees his native Provence,
Where once he was called Earl Raimon ..
He returned to earth through the days and years,
Seven centuries ago, irrevocably gone.
Raymond remembers this sometimes,
And friends say about him - crazy.
And again the battle goes for him every day,
Only now the scale of lesions of inequalities
From the past there was only a shaky shadow -
There Toulouse was handed over, an exam is over here ...
And Raymond the Seventh finishes the cooled tea,
And removes the morphine invisible bonds.
And he goes in the morning, he reads his prayers
And the Catholic temple of Albigensian Toulouse.
Returning back, he slowly walks,
Ignoring the fiery eye of the traffic light,
For he knows that his banner will fall,
And the crusaders of Montfort will trample on them.
And he departs again in his summer guarantor,
Lost in the network of endless paths,
He is looking for rest in placers of television antennas,
Believing in the sad lie of colorful pictures.
And Raymond Seventh looks sadly at the screen,
Filling time erased pockets
And the weather ghosts of old wounds hurt,
What they got in the fields near Toulouse.