Текст песни Сплин - Храм

Temple

I am writing to you from the cloudy edges
Where the rain filled the city to the brim
The water in which everything is reflected
And everything does not turn into wine

I am writing to you from the northern latitudes
Live fish here are dead sprat
Here puddles - a third water and two - gasoline
Here forever is not a sim card contravened

I am writing to you from the southern coasts
Where closely on Olympus from the gods
Where the beaches were emptied in October
Where everything reminds of you

I am writing to you from those monasteries
In which there are no windows or doors
There is nothing, and to be honest
That there is no monastery itself

I am writing to you and looking at the sunset
As a man who gave his life for so
I look, rushing into fever or in chills
How the skyscraper falls to the ground

I am writing to you over brick walls
I write on the Novgorod birch bark
So they write on scraps, on scraps
Blind, that without glasses and that in glasses

I am writing to you that I am flying home
That soon parting off
I write while the red traffic light
I write until the iPhone ends.

Anything will turn into rubbish
No one remembers who built the temple
Such a life is not sugar and not silk
Here remember only those who lit the temple

P.S. I write to you, I write!
Hello to you ! You - and baby!
So long to build a temple and burn for a moment
Only the one who built this temple