Lyrics Михаил Щербаков - Другое обращение к герою
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Проживи, как я хоть двести
лет, хоть триста, хоть на месте
сидя, хоть чертя кривые, -
ты в таблицы восковые
не уверуешь, как я.
Мудрено читать на воске...
да и мир - скорей подмостки,
чем, увы, библиотека.
И плевать какого века
есть метафора сия.
Ты невзлюбишь этот тямный
балаган с его скоромной
болтовняй, с битьям предметов
кухни, с блеяньем кларнетов
и жужанием гитар,
с невменяемым партером
и любовником-премьером,
что на горе всем актрисам,
хоть и выглядит нарциссом,
вся же пахнет, как кентавр.
Ты дерзняшь, как от заразы,
прочь бежать, презрев приказы,
коих альфа и омега
в отрицании побега,
дескать, тоже болтовня!
И раскаешься тем паче
в должный срок. Но как иначе?
Я ведь брал счета к оплате,
а тебе с какой же стати
быть удачливей меня?
Новым Глостером, впустую
принимая за крутую
гору плоское пространство,
станешь ты менять гражданство
с быстротоц сверхзвуковой,
примеряя, как для бала,
антураж какой попало -
и драгунский, и шаманский,
и бургундский, и шампанский,
и церковно-цирковой...
Так и вижу, как в Гранаде
или в Бирме на канате
ты танцуешь, горд и страшен,
меж бумажных крыш и башен
пред бумажным божеством
и, понятный божеству лишь,
весь горишь и торжествуешь,
но - в Крыму ли, на Суматре -
вся опять-таки в театре,
и опять-таки в плохом.
Лишний раз над башней ближней
промахав руками лишний
час и лишний раз дотошно
убедившись только в том, что
твердь воистину тверда,
ты опустишь руки словно
раб цепной, который брявна
ворошит и камни движет,
и отчаянье пронижет
плоть и кровь твою тогда.
И совсем уже бесстрастно,
ни контраста, ни пространства
не боясь, уже у края,
прямо в публику ныряя,
прямо в чярные ряды,
ощутишь спиной негибкой,
что глядит тебе с улыбкой
кто-то вслед. И будет это
Люцифер, носитель света,
ангел утренней звезды.
- Без моей команды, - скажет
он, - вокруг тебя не ляжет
мгла, и медленной волною
не сойдятся над тобою
восхитительная тишь.
Так что, где-нибудь в Лаосе
потанцуй ешя на тросе
или где-нибудь в Майами
помаши ещя руками,
может, вся-таки взлетишь.
Live, as I though two hundred
years, at least three hundred, even on the spot
sitting, though drawing curves -
you are in the wax table
you will not believe how I am.
It is tricky to read on wax ...
and the world is faster than the stage,
than, alas, the library.
And do not care what century
there is this metaphor.
You will not love this gentle
farce with its fast
chatter
kitchen, with bleating clarinets
and zhuzhanie guitars,
with an insane stateroom
and the lover-prime minister,
that on a mountain to all actresses,
although it looks like a daffodil,
all the same smells like a centaur.
You dare, as from infection,
away to escape, despising orders,
of which alpha and omega
in denying escape,
they say, too, chatter!
And repent the more
in due time. But how else?
I took bills for payment,
and you with what else
be lucky to me?
New Gloucester, wasted
taking for a steep
mountain flat space,
will you change citizenship
with rapidity supersonic,
trying on how, for a ball,
entourage is horrible -
and dragoon, and shaman,
and Burgundy, and champagne,
and church and circus ...
And I see how in Granada
or in Burma on the rope
you are dancing, proud and terrible,
between paper roofs and towers
before the paper deity
and, understandable only to the deity,
you all burn and triumph,
but - in the Crimea, in Sumatra -
all the same again in the theater,
and again in the bad.
Once again over the tower of the near
overshooting
hour and once again meticulously
making sure only that
the firmament is truly firm,
you put your hands down like
slave of the chain, who is bryavna
rushes and moves the stones,
and despair will permeate
your flesh and blood then.
And completely unemotional,
no contrast, no space
not afraid, already at the edge,
directly into the public diving,
straight into the stale rows,
you will feel the back is inflexible,
what looks you with a smile
someone following. And it will be
Lucifer, the bearer of light,
the angel of the morning star.
- Without my team, - will say
he will not lie around you
darkness, and a slow wave
do not agree on you
delightful silence.
So, somewhere in Laos
dance on your rope
or somewhere in Miami
waving hands,
can, all the same take off.
years, at least three hundred, even on the spot
sitting, though drawing curves -
you are in the wax table
you will not believe how I am.
It is tricky to read on wax ...
and the world is faster than the stage,
than, alas, the library.
And do not care what century
there is this metaphor.
You will not love this gentle
farce with its fast
chatter
kitchen, with bleating clarinets
and zhuzhanie guitars,
with an insane stateroom
and the lover-prime minister,
that on a mountain to all actresses,
although it looks like a daffodil,
all the same smells like a centaur.
You dare, as from infection,
away to escape, despising orders,
of which alpha and omega
in denying escape,
they say, too, chatter!
And repent the more
in due time. But how else?
I took bills for payment,
and you with what else
be lucky to me?
New Gloucester, wasted
taking for a steep
mountain flat space,
will you change citizenship
with rapidity supersonic,
trying on how, for a ball,
entourage is horrible -
and dragoon, and shaman,
and Burgundy, and champagne,
and church and circus ...
And I see how in Granada
or in Burma on the rope
you are dancing, proud and terrible,
between paper roofs and towers
before the paper deity
and, understandable only to the deity,
you all burn and triumph,
but - in the Crimea, in Sumatra -
all the same again in the theater,
and again in the bad.
Once again over the tower of the near
overshooting
hour and once again meticulously
making sure only that
the firmament is truly firm,
you put your hands down like
slave of the chain, who is bryavna
rushes and moves the stones,
and despair will permeate
your flesh and blood then.
And completely unemotional,
no contrast, no space
not afraid, already at the edge,
directly into the public diving,
straight into the stale rows,
you will feel the back is inflexible,
what looks you with a smile
someone following. And it will be
Lucifer, the bearer of light,
the angel of the morning star.
- Without my team, - will say
he will not lie around you
darkness, and a slow wave
do not agree on you
delightful silence.
So, somewhere in Laos
dance on your rope
or somewhere in Miami
waving hands,
can, all the same take off.