Текст песни миша ласточкин - ангелы смерти
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Разломленная надвое плотина.
Один из нас похож на стихотворца,
другой похож на сгорбленного горца,
в чьих лапах тлеет мелкая лучина.
Жди мартиролог! Вот и подождали.
Пускай зима в осьмнадцатые дали
летит, весна – в заоблачные выси.
Привет от щуки сухопутной крысе.
Но рыбок золотых зато до кучи
нам будет после, круча круче кручи,
гора одна другой горы отвесней.
В чём разница меж тишиной и песней?
А также криком помощи, а также
молчанием на месте всех домишек
(один другого был малоэтажней)?
Слизнула тьма воды жилой излишек
в один момент. С жильцами и гостями,
со всеми их страстями и горстями
любви и гнева, с их отжившим хламом,
с колбасной лавкой, с кладбищем и храмом.
Типичный случай, хроника рутины,
из космоса так не увидеть вовсе.
Но предостережения в вопросе
проезжего для сей худой плотины
не сослужили службы. Целых десять,
иль даже двадцать (некому повесить
на стену календарь) недель искали
причину, так и не нашли – пропали.
Составим опись! Ты пройдись вдоль ряда
всех новеньких могил. Собой порядок
они венчают геометрией ad verbum
с контрастностью склонённой вербы.
Но в этот завоёванный сухими
стадами букв и опоздавших цифр
мир трепетный с прогнозами плохими
внесём и мы свой грустный личный шифр.
А именно – пройдёмся, оглядимся,
на месте познакомимся, простимся.
Вот, собственно, и всё. Ведь не впервой нам
куплеты посвящать смертям и войнам.
Гремят раскаты – не лавин, не моря,
а поезда, что мчится, словно тризну
поёт своей трубой, не в укоризну
внимающим, а как свидетель горя.
И выше гор подъят его текучий
дрожащий дым, летящий чёрной тучей.
И лодка одинокая мерцает
в далёком море. И свирель играет
у пастуха. И вообще – всё так же,
как было до. Не скажешь, что однажды
вода, как будто вспомнив плети Ксеркса,
решила отомстить, и – словно в сердце
ножом – в плотину врезалась. Бывает.
А ты, мой друг, шутить изволь чуть позже,
когда уйдём! Здесь ветер не срывает
бельё с верёвки. Тишина. И всё же,
всё же… Каждый раз – как первый,
не сердце ноет, а скорее нервы.
Ведь даже нас, сменивших грязный китель
на нимб, не посещает небожитель.
Broken in two dam.
One of us is like a poet
the other looks like a hunched highlander,
in whose paws a small splinter smolders.
Wait for the martyrology! So they waited.
Let winter in the eighteenth dal
flies, spring - sky-high.
Greetings from the land rat pike.
But the goldfish, but to the heap
we will be after, the steeper the steeper the steeper
mountain one another mountains sheer.
What is the difference between silence and song?
As well as a cry of help as well
silence in place of all the houses
(each other was low-rise)?
The darkness of water licked the residential surplus
at one moment. With residents and guests
with all their passions and handfuls
love and anger, with their obsolete trash,
with a sausage shop, with a cemetery and a temple.
Typical case, chronicle of routine,
from space so not to see at all.
But warnings in question
road for this thin dam
did not serve. As many as ten
il even twenty (no one to hang
on the wall calendar) weeks searched
they didn’t find the reason - they disappeared.
We will make an inventory! You walk along the row
all new graves. Own order
they crown with geometry ad verbum
with the contrast of a bowed willow.
But this conquered dry
herds of letters and late numbers
tremulous world with bad forecasts
and we will make our sad personal code.
Namely - let's go around, look around,
meet on the spot, say goodbye.
That, in fact, is all. It’s not the first time for us
couplets devote to deaths and wars.
Thunders rumble - not avalanches, not seas,
and trains that rush like a scoundrel
sings his pipe, not reproachfully
attentive, but as a witness of grief.
And above the mountains raised its fluid
trembling smoke flying in a black cloud.
And the lonely boat flickers
in the distant sea. And the pipe plays
at the shepherd. And in general - everything is the same
as it was before. You will not say that one day
water, as if remembering the whips of Xerxes,
decided to take revenge, and - as if in the heart
with a knife - crashed into a dam. It happens.
And you, my friend, please joke a bit later,
when we leave! Here the wind does not break
clothes from a rope. Silence. But still,
yet ... Each time - as the first,
not a heart aches, but rather nerves.
After all, even us, replaced by a dirty tunic
on a halo, does not visit a celestial.
One of us is like a poet
the other looks like a hunched highlander,
in whose paws a small splinter smolders.
Wait for the martyrology! So they waited.
Let winter in the eighteenth dal
flies, spring - sky-high.
Greetings from the land rat pike.
But the goldfish, but to the heap
we will be after, the steeper the steeper the steeper
mountain one another mountains sheer.
What is the difference between silence and song?
As well as a cry of help as well
silence in place of all the houses
(each other was low-rise)?
The darkness of water licked the residential surplus
at one moment. With residents and guests
with all their passions and handfuls
love and anger, with their obsolete trash,
with a sausage shop, with a cemetery and a temple.
Typical case, chronicle of routine,
from space so not to see at all.
But warnings in question
road for this thin dam
did not serve. As many as ten
il even twenty (no one to hang
on the wall calendar) weeks searched
they didn’t find the reason - they disappeared.
We will make an inventory! You walk along the row
all new graves. Own order
they crown with geometry ad verbum
with the contrast of a bowed willow.
But this conquered dry
herds of letters and late numbers
tremulous world with bad forecasts
and we will make our sad personal code.
Namely - let's go around, look around,
meet on the spot, say goodbye.
That, in fact, is all. It’s not the first time for us
couplets devote to deaths and wars.
Thunders rumble - not avalanches, not seas,
and trains that rush like a scoundrel
sings his pipe, not reproachfully
attentive, but as a witness of grief.
And above the mountains raised its fluid
trembling smoke flying in a black cloud.
And the lonely boat flickers
in the distant sea. And the pipe plays
at the shepherd. And in general - everything is the same
as it was before. You will not say that one day
water, as if remembering the whips of Xerxes,
decided to take revenge, and - as if in the heart
with a knife - crashed into a dam. It happens.
And you, my friend, please joke a bit later,
when we leave! Here the wind does not break
clothes from a rope. Silence. But still,
yet ... Each time - as the first,
not a heart aches, but rather nerves.
After all, even us, replaced by a dirty tunic
on a halo, does not visit a celestial.