Текст песни Владимир Столбов - Разговор Со Смертью

You are honored with the attained
from lunar chill to deed
the birches that fell silent in the fall,
entering my window without knocking.
Winter coniferous, snow lacquer
cover my throat with a cold.
In the summer I somehow patched:
the cheeks of the model are red.
I break free, you are not asleep.
The clock is six months behind.
Shoveling off a layer of land,
as I look in the mirror, like.

You are looking over my shoulder.
I hear the chill and honor.

Tears inadvertent sediment
your profile in the sky carves.

But behind a bed unmade,
crumpled by winter smells
hiding forever spring
sparkling with a store sparkle,
and an eye is drawn drawing -
as if from Escher's schedule, -
running out of daily bread
beyond twilight epigraphic.
Freezing in the wind of a bus
I poke my finger in the window
the string and accuracy are lost,
sadness creeps under my skin.
You too fade and get lost
the moon blinking in a semicircle.
sloppy overcast comes in
and warms his hands by the fireplace.
I have little faith in immortality.
You smile, nod -
and in the telephone receiver rush about
beeps without betraying you ...