Lyrics Анатолий Шенберг - Мой верный Санчо Панса
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Мой верный Санчо Панса, не жди, не верь, не плачь!
Бесчинствует над нами безвременья палач.
Ни совести, ни чести, ни крови, ни клинка,
Ни пламени, ни искры, подаренной векам!
Уходят Дон Кихоты расстроенных гитар.
Не держат новобранцы ни Слово, ни удар.
Пересчитать по пальцам оставшихся в строю,
Что песни Дон Кихотов по прежнему поют.
Им было не до шуток на мельничных крестах,
Где каждый миг писался как с чистого листа.
И век их был недолог, и раны глубоки,
Но их клинки звенели до гробовой доски.
Удел привыкших драться и горек и нелеп
К чему теперь стараться за ненасущный хлеб?!
Не оттого ль химеры опутали умы,
Что мы с тобой и сыты, и слепы, и немы!
Мой верный Санчо Панса, седая голова,
Иные нынче ветры, вращают жернова.
Эпоха равнодушно от нас уходит вскачь…
Мой верный Санчо Панса, не жди, не верь, не плачь!
My faithful Sancho Pansy, do not wait, do not believe, do not cry!
Corresponding to us a rampant.
Nor conscience, nor honor, no blood, nor blade,
Neither flame, no sparkov, presented for centuries!
Don Quixote leave upset guitars.
Do not keep recruits or a word nor a blow.
Recalculate on the fingers of the remaining in the ranks,
That Don Kichot songs are still singing.
They were no joke on mill crosses,
Where every moment was written like a clean leaf.
And their eyelids were underworld, and the wounds are deep,
But their blades rang before the coffin board.
The lot is accustomed to fight and robbery and ridiculous
What should I try for non-hunted bread?!
Not because the chimera enveloped the minds,
That we are with you and feste, and blind, and dumb!
My faithful Sancho Pansa, gray head,
Other winds now, rotate the millstone.
The epoch is indifferent from us to hack ...
My faithful Sancho Pansy, do not wait, do not believe, do not cry!
Corresponding to us a rampant.
Nor conscience, nor honor, no blood, nor blade,
Neither flame, no sparkov, presented for centuries!
Don Quixote leave upset guitars.
Do not keep recruits or a word nor a blow.
Recalculate on the fingers of the remaining in the ranks,
That Don Kichot songs are still singing.
They were no joke on mill crosses,
Where every moment was written like a clean leaf.
And their eyelids were underworld, and the wounds are deep,
But their blades rang before the coffin board.
The lot is accustomed to fight and robbery and ridiculous
What should I try for non-hunted bread?!
Not because the chimera enveloped the minds,
That we are with you and feste, and blind, and dumb!
My faithful Sancho Pansa, gray head,
Other winds now, rotate the millstone.
The epoch is indifferent from us to hack ...
My faithful Sancho Pansy, do not wait, do not believe, do not cry!