Текст песни Остап Сливинський - Мені сниться Боґуш Золаї

I dream of Bogus Zolai,
I see his crystal hand with dandelion sticking up.
His angel goes after the swollen ball,
driven by a slow current. Stepping into the water, uncertain of this element.
The last day's dry fruit opens, full of mysteries and observations:
Bohus on the pier, his hair and shirt calm,
despite the coastal wind blowing up the weatherstrip of the weather station;
the balloon illuminates the landscape, scorching its infernal core.
Birds are obsessed with the head of a sweaty hound;
again we see their black shadows fall. Near the border: quiet vans
at night, they move down the bleached wall of the shore, casting a crescent of magnesium light.
Bogus gives us benches, wicker sheets. There are buzzing boilers over the copper river Keresh,
raising water at night; the faster the wheel of the mill, unloaded with bread, rotates.
I know how it can be there - upstream, in the attic, in the depths of the vineyard.
I know how empty the bellows sound, how the wandering light loosens the powdery log of the body,
how neighbors change. Once the only road here
get off the dust and then what? The stone will be exposed, will the springs be killed? God
shows a tombstone in the middle of the garden by a priest.
The court opens its branches on the outskirts of the world.
God forbid, where you two, four, cross, sit in the courtyard
p.m,
formed by his gait, cunning, his deaf exclamations.
You fire in a coal-filled sardine, what are you trying to save yourself from?
From the nocturnal echoes that resemble the roar of bodies through the pipelines of the sky?
From flying angels who know their place and time? From the front lines, which is irresistible
suppress your ring?
A typhoon's eye where your birds sleep. You find a hiding place in the Book,
the wine you drink is reassuring in your mouth. And where is the vine twilight,
and why nothing in your Book says anything about the vineyard's anxiety?
And you, who consider yourself a skilled meteorologist, can
read the kite letters that reporters launch,
seconded? Do you at least hear their banging?
"The main thing, says Bogus, is to be able to catch one of the hot hours when she's hot,
still inadvertently open, will lead us down the corridor for all the next hours.
How to read the keynote far ahead,
bowing of braids, rhythms of voodoo, dark traces on the leeward walls - from crosses,
related from two sticks?
What betrays us before the great water are those few questions and their loose papers,
where do we stand in beams, passing bread and olives from hand to hand?
Insomnia opens here punctually and solemnly, as new
a brightly lit supermarket, they come and appreciate here,
Gypsies chase all their horses here,
"Can I spend the night in your insomnia?"
Bogus looks at this silvery continent that escapes its shadow,
suffering a hopeless phobia is to be the shadow of your shadow.
Dark comets of lilies; the simplest nouns, water, gunpowder, voice, rotate,
like stroboscopes, casting off the murky swinging glare.
Footprints on the water, a train that we were unable to stop at this intermediate station,
signs of our invisible letter, what else can be seen from a bird's eye view?
the roaring of the seed, the light of our inflamed larynx, the voices that light up
from beneath the ribs with cupic cursive,
ignition of the engines, a radiant vessel carrying the airfield,
throat singing, what do the messages of Our Lady of Fatima duplicate for us?
high torn troughs, endless confusion of tracks,
some spot, something between the trees that pops up,
and re-illuminates elsewhere
rail directories and stations that are always far away
frozen glass with the letters of someone's uneven breath?
The angel, having crossed on that coast, twists the division.
Bogus pours the remnants of wine into a bottle, drops the well of ice,
and until he turns off the lantern,
there are few words left, and you hardly have time to say:
“While still feeling each other's backs
we are still feeling each other's backs ”