Lyrics А. Кудряшева - Мама На Даче

Mom in the country. The key is on the table. Breakfast can not be done.
Holidays are coming soon. Eight years, in August there will be nine.
In August nine, seven on the clock, the sky is light and flat,
The sun left faded streaks in her hair.

Hold a sleepy scrap in the palm of your hand and let it slip through your fingers ...
Vitka from the tenth floor again calls for a swim. It is necessary to hurry with all legs and eyes - all of a sudden they will run away, leave?
Vitka graduated from the fourth grade - that is, almost old.

Shorts with a T-shirt - a simple outfit, take an apple for a snack ...
Vitka will teach me how to dive. He promised, I remember!
The road to the river is well-groomed, scorched and familiar.
Dusty legs look like mom's mittens.
Today we have such heat - the leaves are just like rags!
Maybe we'll play later. I'll ask to hide and seek.

Vitka - he is kind, one in one boy from Jules Verne.
I will ask to drive me. I’ll be allowed, probably.
The evening begins, it should get dark. Day to the end of the week.
I turn to the wall ... One hundred. Ninety nine.

Mom in the country. Bicycle. Take an exam tomorrow.
The sun licks the abstract with tender eyes.
Meet the morning and sit all night, wait for the onset of summer ...
In August I will be a student. Today, neither this nor that.

Parting bread and cheese with a knife - breakfast from sleep is tasteless.
Vitka from the tenth floor is now in his third year.
He knows all the smart professors, writes programs in the company ...
Hood, ironic and black-browed, straight hero from the movie.

He writes notes to my sister, gives flowers from a payday,
Only now I swim faster and compose better.
Just my sister is fair-faced, I'm heavier and angrier ...
We climb onto the porch and launch the snake.

It seems like they are leaving at night, I am taking a train. The river rustles, rustles at the feet, now it is waist-deep. Seventy eight. Seventy seven. I'm crying with my back to the squad ...
Let them hide. Well, all of them. I will not look for them.

Mom in the country. Baska is buzzing. Sleepy inaction.
The cat settled on its chest, the sun on the blanket.
Cups, palms and sweaters ... Coffee, I pray, cook!
Has anyone seen me yesterday? Don't say better ...

Let it be the big secret of little debauchery.
Everyone was drunk, weightless, warmed by the warm breath of his brother,
His throat was hoarse from chatter, ashes flew from the balcony ...
All with each other and all alone - alive and rebellious.

If we take off on the ruble, breakfast will come to our house.
Lord, how I love you all! Rainbow on the palms
Street in sunny lace ... Vitka, wash the plates?
You can wallow and come to life. You can go to the river ...
I will catch you and conquer: I will make you cut, shave.
Nose into a broken bark ... Thirty-four. Thirty.

Mom in the photo. Keys in the lock. Eight hours before the summer.
The sun on the walls, on the backpack, in old sandals.
Sleepy paws through the square, and nowhere to go.
Vitka in America. I am in Moscow. The river in the distant childhood.

The apple has eaten, the composition has left, somewhere it goes to Nice ...
I start counting with a hundred. My life is from one.
We fight, cry with her in unison ... clowns in the arena.
"Twenty-one," I mumble through a dream.
"Forty!" - laughs Time.

Forty - and the first gray hair, forty-one - to the hospital.
Twenty-one - I live alone. Twenty are loophole eyes
Feet scratched, demon in the rib, thoughts running in a squat ...
Someone is waiting for me in the yard, someone is on the tenth.

Ten - ending fourth grade, breakfast can not be done.
We must hurry with all our legs and eyes ... In August there will be nine.
Eight - to carry keys around the neck, to melt the anthem in the sun ...

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