Lyrics Стефания Данилова - Тактильный город
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Я болею неизлечимым тактильным…городом,
Что касался меня и Вас, не соединив,
В институтском парке одним и тем же дышали холодом
поздней осени, в лучшие его дни?
Где Вы были, когда носило меня по станции,
На которой я зарабатывала гастрит?
Может, мы были лингвистическими повстанцами,
предпочитавшими слову «улица» слово «стрит?»
Может, в этом поезде даже белье многоразовое
Знакомо с Вашей лохматою головой?
А я на нем сплю, так здорово, и выбрасывать
Воздух из легких не хочется оттого,
Что, когда стоим в нашем чистом дворике,
Мы один и тот же вдыхаем дым.
Если Боже, конечно же, будет добреньким,
Он еще перетасует наши следы.
Этим фактом я словно наотмашь вспорота:
моментально даль превратилась в близь.
Я болею неизлечимым тактильным городом,
где мы так недавно пересеклись.
I am sick with an incurable tactile ... city,
As for me and you, without connecting,
In the institute park the same breathing cold
late autumn, in his best days?
Where were you when you carried me around the station,
On which I earned a gastritis?
Maybe we were linguistic insurgents,
who preferred the word "street" to the word "street?"
Maybe in this train even a reusable underwear
Familiar with your shaggy head?
And I'm sleeping on it, so cool, and throw it away
Air from the lungs do not want because,
What, when we stand in our clean yard,
We breathe in the same smoke.
If God, of course, will be kind,
He will shuffle our tracks.
By this fact, I'm like a backstab:
instantly the distance turned into proximity.
I am sick with an incurable tactile city,
where we crossed so recently.
As for me and you, without connecting,
In the institute park the same breathing cold
late autumn, in his best days?
Where were you when you carried me around the station,
On which I earned a gastritis?
Maybe we were linguistic insurgents,
who preferred the word "street" to the word "street?"
Maybe in this train even a reusable underwear
Familiar with your shaggy head?
And I'm sleeping on it, so cool, and throw it away
Air from the lungs do not want because,
What, when we stand in our clean yard,
We breathe in the same smoke.
If God, of course, will be kind,
He will shuffle our tracks.
By this fact, I'm like a backstab:
instantly the distance turned into proximity.
I am sick with an incurable tactile city,
where we crossed so recently.