Текст песни Макс Фривинг - Ворон

Somehow at midnight, at the hour sullen, tired of thinking,
I remembered one page above the folio page,
And he suddenly woke up from the sound, as if someone had suddenly caught,
It was as if I had heard it in the door of my house.
"The guest," I said, "is knocking at the door of my house,
Guest - and nothing more. "

Ah, I remember clearly, was then December rainy,
And from every flash of red the shadow slipped on the carpet.
I waited a day from a gloomy distance, waited in vain for the books to be given
Relief from grief over lost Linor,
According to the saint, that there, in Eden, the angels call Linor, -
Naming here ever since.

Silk anxious rustle in purple drapes, curtains
Polonil, filled me with vague horror of everything,
And to make my heart feel better, standing up, I repeated tiredly:
"This guest is only belated at my door,
The guest is somehow late at my door,
Guest - and nothing more. "

And, recovering from the fright, I met the guest as a friend.
"Excuse me, sir il lady," I greeted him, "
I was drowsy here from boredom, and so quiet were the sounds,
So inaudible are your knock at the door of my house,
That I barely heard you ", - I opened the door: no one,
Darkness - and nothing more.

Darkness midnight surrounded, so I stood, submerged
In dreams, that no one has dreamed of until now;
I waited in vain for this, but the darkness did not give me a sign,
The word only one of the darkness came to me: "Linor!"
I whispered this, and the echo whispered to me: "Linor!"
It whispered like a reproach.

In grief burning about the loss, I slammed the doors tightly
And I heard a knock the same, but clearer than that.
"It's the same recent knock," I said, "into the window behind the shutter,
The wind howls in my eyes at her window,
This wind banged the shutters at my window, -
The wind is nothing more. "

Only I opened the shutters a little - the old raven came out,
Noisily adjusting the mourning of his feathers;
Without a bow, it is important, proudly, he acted in a well-ordered, firm manner;
With the appearance of a lady or a lord at the threshold of mine,
Above the doors on the bust of Pallas at the threshold of my
I sat down and nothing more.

And, waking from sorrow, I smiled at first,
Seeing the importance of a black bird, prudish her fervor,
I said: "Your kind is zadoren, your crest is shabby black,
O sinister ancient Crow, where the gloom Pluto stretches,
How proudly you were called where the darkness of Pluto is stretched? & Quot;
The Raven croaked: & quot; Nevermore & quot ;.

The cry of the bird was clumsy,
Although her answer was without meaning, inadvertently, there was obvious nonsense;
After all, we must all agree, it can hardly happen,
To the bird at midnight, flying out from behind the curtains,
Suddenly, on the bust above the door, sat down, flew out from behind the curtains,
A bird with the nickname "Nevermore".

The crow was sitting on the bust, as if by this word of sadness
I showered my whole life in the night.
He sat with his beak closed, neither with a feather,
And I whispered, suddenly sighing: "As friends from recent times,
Tomorrow he will leave me, as hope from this time on. "
The Raven croaked: & quot; Nevermore & quot ;.

At the answer so successful I shuddered in a calm, gloomy,
And I said: "Undoubtedly, he has solidified for a long time,
He took this word from his master,
Who, under the oppression of the fate of the evil, heard, like a sentence,
Funeral ringing of hope and his death sentence
I heard in this & quot; Nevermore & quot ;.

And with a smile, as in the beginning, I, waking from sorrow,
The armchair to the Raven moved, looking at him point-blank,
He sat on velvet with lilac in a harsh meditation,
What the Raven wanted to say with that word, prophetic for a long time,
What the Crow prophesied to me sullenly, the prophetic for a long time,
A hoarse crook: "Nevermore".

So, in the half-asleep brief, pondering over the riddle,
Feeling how the Crow in my heart stabbed me burning eyes,
The dimly lit chandelier, the head of the tired
I wanted to bend over, sleepy, on a pillow on a pattern,
Ah, she does not bend down on the pillow on the pattern here.
Never, nevermore!

It seemed to me that the clouds of smoke were invisibly erupting
And the seraphim set foot on incense