Lyrics Yotsuya Kaidan - The Grapes Of Wrath
Views
206
0 people consider the lyrics to be true
0 people consider the lyrics of the song incorrect
The lyrics of the song are provided for your reference Yotsuya Kaidan - The Grapes Of Wrath, and also a translation of a song with a video or clip.
Пятница. Но тебе уже давно все равно. Пока другие суетливо собираются на вечеринки или в бары, ты просто исписываешь листы текстами или рисунками. Это твоя душевная терапия.
Поток дней смешался в одно сплошное и нелепое болото. Просыпаясь в четырёх ненавистных стенах, за которыми слышны ссоры тех, кто на публике старается изобразить идеальную пару или счастливую семью. Тебя тошнит от людей, тебе некомфортно в любой компании. Чувствуя себя белой вороной, даже среди якобы похожих, ты всегда спешишь удалиться. У тебя нет друзей, ты истерзан таким сильным одиночеством, что порой шум в ушах нарастает и не даёт тебе уснуть. Часто ты лежишь в кровати до утра не сомкнувши глаз, по скулам стекает струйка соленых слез, увлажняя подушку. Тебе чудовищно обидно за упущенные возможности, и ты прокручиваешь самые болезненные моменты своей жизни, зачем-то мучая себя. Тебе неприятна собственная лень, порождённая внутренним отторжением общества и нежеланием взаимодействовать с ним в любой форме. Все, кто когда-то были рядом и хоть что-то значат, уже давно вычеркнули твоё имя из записных книжек и тебя самого из своей жизни. И ты не винишь их, ведь это и правда трудно - поддерживать человека, который сам разрушает себя.
Но ты в какой-то степени даже рад тому, что окружающий мир совершенно чужд. Ты давно мог сломаться, но внутри тебя есть крепкий каркас, который даёт тебе стимул существовать, вдохновляя на очередной вечер с ручкой и блокнотом. Нервные линии, наслаиваясь друг на друга, превращаются в портрет, под рисунком небрежным почерком ты выводишь пару предложений, и тебе становится чуточку легче.
__________________________
Где ты? С кем ты? Помнишь ли ты про меня?
Я срываю гроздья гнева и отравляю тебя.
Friday. But you have long been all the same. While others are fussily going to parties or bars, you simply write down the sheets with texts or drawings. This is your psychotherapy.
The flow of days mixed into one continuous and ridiculous swamp. Waking up in four hated walls, behind which hear quarrels of those who are in public trying to portray an ideal couple or a happy family. You are sick of people, you are uncomfortable with any company. Feeling a white crow, even among supposedly similar, you always hasten to retire. You have no friends, you are torn to such a strong loneliness that sometimes the noise in your ears grows and does not let you fall asleep. Often, you lie in bed until the morning has closed your eyes, a stream of salty tears trickles down the cheekbones, moistening the pillow. You are monstrously hurt for missed opportunities, and you scroll the most painful moments of your life, for some reason torturing yourself. You are uncomfortable with your own laziness, generated by the internal rejection of society and the unwillingness to interact with him in any form. All those who once were near and at least something mean have long deleted your name from notebooks and you yourself from your life. And you do not blame them, because it's really difficult to support a person who destroys himself.
But you are, to some extent, even glad that the world around you is completely alien. You could have broken for a long time, but inside you there is a strong frame that gives you the incentive to exist, inspiring you for the next evening with a pen and a notebook. Nerve lines, overlapping each other, turn into a portrait, under a drawing in a careless handwriting you bring out a couple of sentences, and you become a little easier.
__________________________
Where are you? With whom you are? Do you remember about me?
I tear away a bunch of anger and poison you.
The flow of days mixed into one continuous and ridiculous swamp. Waking up in four hated walls, behind which hear quarrels of those who are in public trying to portray an ideal couple or a happy family. You are sick of people, you are uncomfortable with any company. Feeling a white crow, even among supposedly similar, you always hasten to retire. You have no friends, you are torn to such a strong loneliness that sometimes the noise in your ears grows and does not let you fall asleep. Often, you lie in bed until the morning has closed your eyes, a stream of salty tears trickles down the cheekbones, moistening the pillow. You are monstrously hurt for missed opportunities, and you scroll the most painful moments of your life, for some reason torturing yourself. You are uncomfortable with your own laziness, generated by the internal rejection of society and the unwillingness to interact with him in any form. All those who once were near and at least something mean have long deleted your name from notebooks and you yourself from your life. And you do not blame them, because it's really difficult to support a person who destroys himself.
But you are, to some extent, even glad that the world around you is completely alien. You could have broken for a long time, but inside you there is a strong frame that gives you the incentive to exist, inspiring you for the next evening with a pen and a notebook. Nerve lines, overlapping each other, turn into a portrait, under a drawing in a careless handwriting you bring out a couple of sentences, and you become a little easier.
__________________________
Where are you? With whom you are? Do you remember about me?
I tear away a bunch of anger and poison you.