Lyrics аля кудряшева - Мама на даче.

Mom in the country, the key on the table, breakfast can not do. Soon the holidays, eight years, in August will be nine. In August, nine, seven on the clock, the sky is light and flat, the sun left faded stripes in her hair. Sleepy piece in the palm to hold, and miss through the fingers. Vitka from the tenth floor again calls to swim. We must hurry with all legs and eyes - they will suddenly run away, leave. Vitka finished fourth grade - that is, almost that old. Shorts with a t-shirt - a simple outfit, take an apple for afternoon tea. Vitka will teach me to dive, he promised, I remember. To the river the road is walked, burned and habitual. Dusty legs are like mother's mittens. Today we have such a heat - the leaves are just like rags. Maybe later we will play, I will ask to hide and seek. Vitka - he is kind, one to one boy from Jules Verne. I will ask that I drive, they will allow me, probably. The evening will begin, it should get dark. Day until the end of the week. I turn to the wall. One hundred, ninety nine.

Mom in the country. Bicycle. Tomorrow to take the exam. The sun licks the abstract with tender eyes. Morning meet and sit all night, wait for the onset of summer. In August, I will be a student, now - neither this nor that. Bread half-bodied and cheese from a knife, breakfast from sleep is not tasty. Vitka from the tenth floor now in the third year. He knows all clever professors, writes programs in the company. Hood, ironic and black-browed, just a hero from the movie. She writes notes to my sister, gives flowers from a payday, only now I swim faster and write better. Just my little sister is bright in face, I am heavier and more evil, we climb on the porch and launch the snake. It seems they are leaving at night, I spend the train. The river rustles, rustles at the feet, now it is waist-high. Seventy-eight, seventy-seven, crying back to the composition. Let them hide, well, all of them, I will not look for them.

Mom in the country. Baska is buzzing. Sleep inactivity. The cat settled on her chest, the sun on a blanket. Cups, palms and sweaters, coffee, I pray, boil. Has anyone seen me yesterday? Better not say it. Let it be a big secret of a little depravity, everyone was drunk, weightless, warmed by his brother's warm breath, his throat was hoarse from the chatter, the ashes flew from the balcony, all with each other - and all alone, alive and unruly. If we throw off 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'll catch you and conquer, make hair cut, shave. Nose in the broken bark. Thirty-four, thirty ...

Mom on the photo. The keys in the lock. Eight hours before the summer. The sun on the walls, on the backpack, in the old sandal. 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 been eaten, the composition has gone, it is going to Nice somewhere, I start counting from one hundred, my life - from one. Fighting, crying with her in unison, clowns in the arena. & quot; twenty one & quot ;, mumble through a dream. & quot; Forty & quot ;, - laughs time. Forty - and the first gray hair, forty-one - in the hospital. Twenty-one — I live one, twenty: loopholes, feet in scratches, a demon in the rib, thoughts run flat, somebody is waiting for me in the yard, somebody is at the tenth. Ten - finish fourth grade, breakfast can not do. We must hurry with all legs and eyes. In August there will be nine. Eight - on the neck of the keys to carry, in the sun-melting hymn ...

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