Текст песни Булат Окуджава - Прощание с новогодней ёлкой

Blue crown, crimson trunk,
tinkling of cones of green.
Somewhere in the rooms the wind passed -
there they congratulated the lovers.
Somewhere he touched old strings -
stretches their roll call ...
That January rolled, flew,
frantic, like an electric train.

We in the dust and dust dressed you,
we have served you faithfully,
loudly into the cardboard trumpet pipes,
as if on a feat they hurried.
I even believed for a moment
(to know, in the innocence of the heart):
the woman of that enchanted face
merged with your eternal festival.

At the moment of parting, at the hour of payment,
on the wilting day of the week
than it became you bad?
Are they all stupid?
And refined, like nightingales,
proud as grenadiers,
what's in reliable hands
hide your cavaliers?

There would be no time for them to gather, time to calm down,
there would be no need for them all to rush.
But the wheels begin to pound:
how hard it is to part.
But the fuss begins again.
Time judges in its own way.
And in the bustle you were removed from the cross,
and there will be no Sunday.

Spruce, my spruce is a walking deer,
in vain you must have tried:
women of that careful shadow
in your needles yours is lost.
Fir, my spruce! Like the Savior on Blood
your silhouette is distant,
as if a trace of surprised love,
flushed, unquenched.