Текст песни Shiro - Мама на даче, ключ на столе...

Mom at the dacha, the key on the table, breakfast can not be done. Soon the vacation, eight years, in August will be nine. In August, nine, seven on the clock, the sky is light and flat, the sun left faded strips in the hair. Sleepy snippet in the palm of your hand, and miss through your fingers. Vitka from the tenth floor again calls to swim. We must hurry from all the legs and eyes - suddenly run away, leave. Vitka finished the fourth grade - that is, almost that old one. Shorts with a T-shirt - a simple outfit, an apple to take on a mid-afternoon snack. Vitka will teach me to dive, he promised, I remember. To the river the road is run, burned and familiar. Dusty legs are like mother's gloves. Today we have such a heat - the leaves are just like rags. Maybe we'll play later, I'll ask hide and seek. Vitka is a kind, one-on-one boy from Jules Verne. I'll ask them to drive me, they'll let me, probably. The evening will begin, it should be dark. Day before the end of the week. I turn to the wall. One hundred, ninety-nine.

Mom at the dacha. A bike. Tomorrow to take the exam. The sun licks the syncope with affectionate eyes. Morning to meet and sit up all night, wait for the coming of summer. In August I will be a student, now - neither this nor this. Half-wool bread and cheese from the knife, breakfast from sleep is not tasty. Vitka from the tenth floor is now in his third year. He knows all smart professors, writes programs in the firm. Hood, ironic and black-bearded, straight hero from the movie. Writes notes to my sister, gives flowers from the pay, only now I swim faster and compose better. It's just that my sister was light-faced, I'm heavier and angrier, we climb onto the porch and start the snake. They seem to leave the night, I take the train. The river rustles, rustles at the feet, now it waist-deep. Seventy-eight, seventy-seven, I weep with my back to the composition. Let them hide, well, all of them, I will not look for them.

Mom at the dacha. Baska buzzes. Sleep deprivation. The cat settled on her chest, the sun on the blanket. Cups, palms and sweaters, coffee, pray, cook. Has anyone seen me yesterday? You'd better not say. Let this be the great secret of little debauchery, everyone was drunk, weightless, warm, warm brother's breath, his throat was hoarse with chatter, the ashes flew from the balcony, all with each other - and all alone, alive and disobedient. If we rip off the ruble, breakfast will come to our house, Lord, how I love you all, a rainbow on the palms. Street in the sun lace, Vitka, wash the plates. You can roll around and come to life. You can go to the river. I'll catch you and take you down, get my hair cut, shave. A nose in a broken bark. Thirty-four, thirty ...

Mom's on the picture. Keys in the castle. Eight hours to summer. The sun on the walls, on a backpack, in old sandals. Sleepy feet across the square, and nowhere to go. Vitka in America. I am in Moscow. A river in the distant childhood. Apple ate, left the train, somewhere goes to Nice, I start counting from a hundred, my life from one. We fight, we cry with her in unison, clowns in the arena. "Twenty-one," I mutter through a dream. "Forty," laughs the time. Forty - and the first gray, forty-one - to the hospital. Twenty-one - I live alone, twenty: eye-loopholes, feet in scratches, a demon in the rib, thoughts flee to the squat, someone waits for me in the yard, somebody - in the tenth. Ten - I finish fourth grade, breakfast can not be done. We must hurry with all my legs and eyes. In August there will be nine. Eight - on the neck keys to carry, in the sun melting hymn ...

Three. Two. One. I'm going to look. God help me.