Lyrics не важно - Окна
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The lyrics of the song are provided for your reference не важно - Окна, and also a translation of a song with a video or clip.
В одной далекой, очень старой неизвестной стране,
на нашей доброй необъятной зеленой земле,
жил да был человек, простой, техонечко жил,
о чем то думал иногда и в мыслях помиру бродил.
он был художником, но рисовал лишь на окне своем,
и с каждым днем он что то новое мог видеть в нем,
да вот такая загадка, перед тем как леч поспать,
он любил в своем окошке темную ночь рисовать.
где много звезд и светит сверху только луна,
она одна дарит тепло, но все же так же холодна,
там же сны рисовал, что видеть ночью хотел,
ложился спать, сопел, и как обычно крехтел.
утром проснувшись он брал в руки кисть поновей
и теперь свой сон ночной закрашивал поскорей,
да светлой краской с утра окно убычно покрывал,
желтый песок и голубое небо там он рисовал.
когда скучал, то небо его было в облоках,
еще мечтал и дождик ждал момента в небеса,
чтобы на землю пролисть в нарисовоном окне,
иногда он просто думал о любимой жене.
а в выходные как обычно пьяниц триста приводил,
рядом с ними находил себя и тоже что то пил,
но и пьянел, невнятно говорил, да чипуху,
по пьяне песенки там пели те что были на слуху.
уху любил ее ему готовила жена,
она была очень красивая, добра и скромна,
а когда он виноватым чувствовал себя во всем,
тогда решетку рисовал в окне своем ну а потом,
он мог часам сидеть о чем то думать и глазеть
в это окошко, и от рисунков мог балдеть,
чтоб вечерком от скуки не оттянуться ко сну,
он рисовал в окне девицу иногда и неодну.
они там быстро раздевались мгновениям руки,
лизбийским ласкам предавались избавляя от тоски,
бывало сам он удевлялся от рисунков своих,
но что поделать он не мог нарисовать никак других.
Am C
Посмотри на жизнь, на свое окно,
D E
сам себя врисовал ты в него давно,
кем ты видешь себя, что ты стоишь смотри,
ты стоишь у окна словно как у двери.
и увидешь все жизнь в твоих руках,
что то не получается это не крах,
на грехи посмотри, на грехи на свои,
их замазать не сможешь, смотри...
В таких рисунках он жил и там себя рисовать,
художник сильно любил чего еще могу сказать,
он в окне и царь и бог, ему плевать на все вокруг,
порочный круг, желанье наводил порой недуг.
но в окне он только добрые рисунки малевал,
к примеру, быть то бы от бондитов красавицу спасал
или бабусе очень старой место уступил,
в шикарной такче часто ездил там, это он любил.
в общем умер гдето в сорок, всмысле у того окна,
остались жить после него его сын, ну и жена,
она осталась одна почти и стала скучать
по мужу, сын же решил что за окошком узнать.
к тому же может за окном все красевей чем на окне,
он от мамы в тайне стирать стал ночью в темноте,
растворитель где то взял, стал стирать за слоем слой,
на окне все чьи то лица, вобщем то народ простой.
только все было не так там как должно быть
и время пятилось вспять его не остановить,
все было наобород, люди шли спиной вперед,
тетки били хулиганов, это полный сумасброд.
а менты всех отпускали, куда то убигали,
что бы их же не догнали, нагами не отпинали,
с пастели девушки вставали одевались, уходили,
наводили тоску, друг друга вовсе не любили.
вылетали самолеты прямо из Москвы, вглуби,
старушки место уступали в трамваях молодым,
а дожди влевались в небо, исчезая там совсем,
не пили водку алкаши не пели затем.
вскоре стер последний слой то пацаненок на окне,
а за ним ничего не, ему все виделось во сне.
Посмотри на жизнь, на свое окно,
сам себя врисовал ты в него давно,
кем ты видешь себя, что ты стоишь смотри,
ты стоишь у окна словно как у двери.
и увидешь все жизнь в твоих руках,
что то не получается это не крах,
на грехи посмотри, на грехи на свои,
их замазать не сможешь, смотри...
In one distant, very old unknown country,
on our good vast green land,
there was a man, a simple, tehonechko lived,
sometimes I thought about something and thought about wandering.
he was an artist, but he painted only on his window,
and every day he could see something new in him,
yes here is such a mystery, before treating sleep,
he loved to draw in his dark window night.
where there are many stars and only the moon shines from above,
she alone gives warmth, but is still as cold
in the same place, drew dreams, what I wanted to see at night,
went to bed, snuffled, and as usual krechtel.
in the morning, waking up, he picked up a newer brush
and now he painted his dream of night quickly,
yes with light paint in the morning the window was loosely covered,
yellow sand and blue sky there he painted.
when he missed, his sky was wrapped in
still dreamed and the rain waited for the moment to heaven
to land on a window in a window
sometimes he just thought of his beloved wife.
and on weekends, as usual, three hundred drunkards
next to them I found myself and also saw something,
but also got drunk, said indistinctly, yes chipuhu,
drunk on the songs there were singing those that were heard.
Wuhu loved her his wife cooked,
she was very beautiful, kind and modest,
and when he felt guilty about everything,
then I drew a grid in my window, and then,
he could sit for hours thinking about something and stare
In this window, and from the pictures could baldet,
so that in the evening of boredom you will not hang out to sleep,
he painted the girl in the window sometimes non-uniform.
they quickly undressed there to the moments of the hand,
Lizbian caresses indulged in eliminating melancholy,
sometimes he himself looked at his drawings,
but what could he do?
Am C
Look at life, at your window,
D e
you painted yourself into it a long time ago
who do you see yourself that you are worth watching
you stand at the window as if at the door.
and you will see all life in your hands,
that it doesn't work, it's not a crash,
Look at your sins, at your own sins,
you can't cover them up, look ...
In such drawings he lived and there to draw himself,
the artist was very fond of what else can I say
he is in the window and the king and god, he does not care about everything around
a vicious circle, desire sometimes led to illness.
but in the window he only made good drawings,
for example, it would be to save a beauty from bondondits
or a very old babus place gave way
in a posh takche often traveled there, he loved that.
in general, he died somewhere in forty, I mean at that window,
his son, well, and his wife, lived after him
she was alone and almost bored
according to her husband, the son decided that to find out through the window.
besides, maybe outside the window everything is brighter than the window,
he began to erase from the mother in secret at night in the dark,
I took the solvent somewhere, began to wash the layer after the layer,
on the window all of someone's faces, in general, the people are simple.
only everything was wrong there as it should be
and the time has gone backwards not to stop him,
everything was on the face, people went backwards,
Aunts beat hooligans, this is a complete madcap.
and the cops let everyone go, somewhere they killed,
that they would not be caught up with, they would not be kicked off by naga,
from the girl's pastels they got up dressed, left,
inspired melancholy, did not love each other at all.
planes flew straight from Moscow, deep down,
the old women gave way to young trams,
and the rains poured into the sky, disappearing completely there,
did not drink vodka drunks did not sing then.
soon erased the last layer then the kid on the window,
and behind him nothing, he saw everything in a dream.
Look at life, at your window,
you painted yourself into it a long time ago
who do you see yourself that you are worth watching
you stand at the window as if at the door.
and you will see all life in your hands,
that it doesn't work, it's not a crash,
Look at your sins, at your own sins,
you can't cover them up, look ...
on our good vast green land,
there was a man, a simple, tehonechko lived,
sometimes I thought about something and thought about wandering.
he was an artist, but he painted only on his window,
and every day he could see something new in him,
yes here is such a mystery, before treating sleep,
he loved to draw in his dark window night.
where there are many stars and only the moon shines from above,
she alone gives warmth, but is still as cold
in the same place, drew dreams, what I wanted to see at night,
went to bed, snuffled, and as usual krechtel.
in the morning, waking up, he picked up a newer brush
and now he painted his dream of night quickly,
yes with light paint in the morning the window was loosely covered,
yellow sand and blue sky there he painted.
when he missed, his sky was wrapped in
still dreamed and the rain waited for the moment to heaven
to land on a window in a window
sometimes he just thought of his beloved wife.
and on weekends, as usual, three hundred drunkards
next to them I found myself and also saw something,
but also got drunk, said indistinctly, yes chipuhu,
drunk on the songs there were singing those that were heard.
Wuhu loved her his wife cooked,
she was very beautiful, kind and modest,
and when he felt guilty about everything,
then I drew a grid in my window, and then,
he could sit for hours thinking about something and stare
In this window, and from the pictures could baldet,
so that in the evening of boredom you will not hang out to sleep,
he painted the girl in the window sometimes non-uniform.
they quickly undressed there to the moments of the hand,
Lizbian caresses indulged in eliminating melancholy,
sometimes he himself looked at his drawings,
but what could he do?
Am C
Look at life, at your window,
D e
you painted yourself into it a long time ago
who do you see yourself that you are worth watching
you stand at the window as if at the door.
and you will see all life in your hands,
that it doesn't work, it's not a crash,
Look at your sins, at your own sins,
you can't cover them up, look ...
In such drawings he lived and there to draw himself,
the artist was very fond of what else can I say
he is in the window and the king and god, he does not care about everything around
a vicious circle, desire sometimes led to illness.
but in the window he only made good drawings,
for example, it would be to save a beauty from bondondits
or a very old babus place gave way
in a posh takche often traveled there, he loved that.
in general, he died somewhere in forty, I mean at that window,
his son, well, and his wife, lived after him
she was alone and almost bored
according to her husband, the son decided that to find out through the window.
besides, maybe outside the window everything is brighter than the window,
he began to erase from the mother in secret at night in the dark,
I took the solvent somewhere, began to wash the layer after the layer,
on the window all of someone's faces, in general, the people are simple.
only everything was wrong there as it should be
and the time has gone backwards not to stop him,
everything was on the face, people went backwards,
Aunts beat hooligans, this is a complete madcap.
and the cops let everyone go, somewhere they killed,
that they would not be caught up with, they would not be kicked off by naga,
from the girl's pastels they got up dressed, left,
inspired melancholy, did not love each other at all.
planes flew straight from Moscow, deep down,
the old women gave way to young trams,
and the rains poured into the sky, disappearing completely there,
did not drink vodka drunks did not sing then.
soon erased the last layer then the kid on the window,
and behind him nothing, he saw everything in a dream.
Look at life, at your window,
you painted yourself into it a long time ago
who do you see yourself that you are worth watching
you stand at the window as if at the door.
and you will see all life in your hands,
that it doesn't work, it's not a crash,
Look at your sins, at your own sins,
you can't cover them up, look ...