Lyrics Канат Канака - Крылец
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Белле Ахмадулиной
В тот злополучный год стихи писались долго.
На белую строфу язык себя извёл.
Что на язык пенять? – безмолвно, одиноко
(обмолвилась свеча) стихи уходят в стол.
Про полнолунье тут не может быть и речи.
Молчит про цвет не цвет бравурный долгий слог.
Боярин говорю, вру. Жил да был помещик,
который дом воздвиг, а сам в постель залёг.
Не молодой кирпич, чья добрая порода
растит наш скудный век, покрепче будет, чем
злодей, что строил дом. Он умер не задолго.
Век не дожив, ушёл. Куда ушёл? Зачем?
Он изнемог, прости. Усопший был помещик.
Я знаю. Жил один. Имущий не имел
жену, детей, собак. Но слыл любимцем женщин
не чуждых к красоте. Любил, страдал, старел.
Легла на этот дом его богатства лепта.
Но зло сыграла жизнь. Помещик не был злым.
Как одинок он был, я представляю это.
Не поборол тоску и помер молодым.
И дому и крыльцу помещика подошвы
по нраву бы пришлись. Как паутины сеть,
жизнь не прочна, а жить хотелось бы подольше.
Никто не скажет, как скоропостижна смерть.
Утратив интерес к моей живой особе
ночь прочь уходит. Час шестой оповестил
восход. Как детектив, я рыщу в каждом слове
порабощенный звук. Но почерк мой строптив.
Пустилось, было в бег, перо, сбиваясь в речи
и запинаясь, как я вышел на крыльцо
помещика. Восход уже летел навстречу,
в тумане разглядев знакомое лицо.
Помещика добро – дом с уцелевшим садом
и прудом. Старый двор колодцем оснащён,
где жабы развелись. Колодец к саду задом,
ко мне лицом стоит. Крылец сооружён
из нескольких столбов из дерева, из арок
диковинных, из двух не дюжинных стропил.
Дом сторож сторожит, а человек он старый.
Обрёл бесхозный дом, на всё, что накопил.
Помещик и крылец в моей строке увязли.
Я подвожу конец упрямою рукой.
Читатель мой не глуп, но тут не видит связи
и просит уяснить, помещик кто такой?!
2003
Belle Akhmadulina
In that ill-fated year, the poems wrote for a long time.
On white storm, I got myself.
What's on the tongue - silent, lonely
(Candle crowded) Poems go to the table.
About the full moon there can be no speech.
Silent about color is not a color brix long syllable.
Boyar say, lying. There was a landower
Which is an erection house, and himself in bed.
Not a young brick whose good breed
Grow our scanty age, will be swarming than
Villain, which built a house. He died not long.
The century did not live, gone. Where did you go? What for?
He is exhausted, sorry. The deceased was a landowner.
I know. Alone lived. I did not have
Wife, children, dogs. But wondered women
Not alien to beauty. He loved, suffered, Star.
He fell on this house of his wealth of the lept.
But evil played life. The landowner was not evil.
How lonely he was, I imagine it.
Not overwheling melancholy and died with young.
And house and porch sole
By morality would have come. As web web,
Life is not durable, but I would like to live longer.
Nobody will tell how the death is supreme.
Losing interest in my living person
Night away goes away. Hour sixth notified
sunrise. As a detective, I'm growing in every word
enslave sound. But the handwriting is my stalling.
It was broken, it was in running, feather, knocking on speech
And stamped, as I went out on the porch
landowner. Sunrise was already flying to meet
In the fog of seeing a familiar face.
Room landowner - House with a surviving garden
and pond. Old courtyard well equipped,
Where the toads divorced. Well to the garden as
I stand to me. Poles constructs
from several columns from wood, from arches
Dicks, of two not dozen rafters.
House Watchman will fit, and man is old.
Found an overhexious home, for everything that has accumulated.
The landowner and the porches in my row were bogged down.
I bring the end stubborn hand.
My reader is not stupid, but here does not see communication
And asks to understand, the landowner who is?!
2003.
In that ill-fated year, the poems wrote for a long time.
On white storm, I got myself.
What's on the tongue - silent, lonely
(Candle crowded) Poems go to the table.
About the full moon there can be no speech.
Silent about color is not a color brix long syllable.
Boyar say, lying. There was a landower
Which is an erection house, and himself in bed.
Not a young brick whose good breed
Grow our scanty age, will be swarming than
Villain, which built a house. He died not long.
The century did not live, gone. Where did you go? What for?
He is exhausted, sorry. The deceased was a landowner.
I know. Alone lived. I did not have
Wife, children, dogs. But wondered women
Not alien to beauty. He loved, suffered, Star.
He fell on this house of his wealth of the lept.
But evil played life. The landowner was not evil.
How lonely he was, I imagine it.
Not overwheling melancholy and died with young.
And house and porch sole
By morality would have come. As web web,
Life is not durable, but I would like to live longer.
Nobody will tell how the death is supreme.
Losing interest in my living person
Night away goes away. Hour sixth notified
sunrise. As a detective, I'm growing in every word
enslave sound. But the handwriting is my stalling.
It was broken, it was in running, feather, knocking on speech
And stamped, as I went out on the porch
landowner. Sunrise was already flying to meet
In the fog of seeing a familiar face.
Room landowner - House with a surviving garden
and pond. Old courtyard well equipped,
Where the toads divorced. Well to the garden as
I stand to me. Poles constructs
from several columns from wood, from arches
Dicks, of two not dozen rafters.
House Watchman will fit, and man is old.
Found an overhexious home, for everything that has accumulated.
The landowner and the porches in my row were bogged down.
I bring the end stubborn hand.
My reader is not stupid, but here does not see communication
And asks to understand, the landowner who is?!
2003.