Lyrics И. Бродский - В горах

one

     Blue saxon forest
     Snow beaten porcelain.
     The world is colorless, the world is whitish,
     precisely lime the solution.

     You in a brown coat
     I, the fiend of sales.
     You are nobody, and I am nobody.
     Together we are almost a landscape.

        2

     The white slopes are quiet and smooth.
     Knock in the hammer valley.
     The tendency of the mountains to give foot
     maybe roofing town.

     A mountain peak accessible to dreams
     photographic film, landfill clouds.
     The tendency of the mountains to the foot, to us,
     the essence of the inside is their twist.

        3

     At night, the plateau removed.
     Fluttering wick.
     You are nobody, and I am nobody:
     smoke dead loop.

     In a cloud hiding, God wanders
     month nail biting.
     Like a sideways landscape
     we cannot go crazy.

        4

     Blue Saxon Forest.
     To look in the mirror and into the distance
     lost interest
     eyes gray crystal.

     Mountain air whose glass
     sigh unknown
     breaks like a raccoon,
     carbon brick.

        5

     You and I are nobody, nothing.
     These mountains are our phrases
     a hundred echo
     two hundred, three hundred thousand times.

     Reduces speech to hoarseness
     to compare not the first time
     our ribs and ridges
     their broken line.

        6

     Than a hug is denser
     the space behind - mountains,
     slopes, folds, sheets -
     more time to reproach.

     But also the pendulum step
     out of space
     also strong, like a big man,
     further meat to the bone.

        7

     Blue Saxon Forest.
     The world is jagged, feeling
     that matter is scarce.
     This is a local keynote.

     Next is only oxygen:
     Entrance into the body
     through the nostrils, through the mouth.
     Taste and color are nothingness.

        8

     What we breathe is what we are
     what we trample on is rotting us.
     This kind of essence, in our honor,
     their refusal to connect.

     This is the end of the earth. the end
     geology; limit.
     A place exactly under the crown
     into the air of pushed bodies.

        nine

     In this sense, we are a couple,
     in the highest harmonious union.
     Below - obviously not a damn thing.
     I'm afraid to look there.

     Clutch my elbow tight
     defeating power with passion
     gravity - chance up
     looking down to fall.

        10

     Blue Saxon Forest.
     The world watching vigilant birds
     - Gulliver and Hercules -
     for the particle grimaces.

     The sum of two decays, we
     we can give in return the numbers
     lampshade without fringe,
     banging on the mos room.

        eleven

     Knock knock knocking foot
     on the go to the pine floor.
     The mountains hide like snow
     in color own verb.

     What makes a steep slope good
     that, stripping naked,
     yet - inanimate;
     the same is rock.

        12

     In this world of terrible forms
     our business is the side.
     For them we are pasture,
     ellipsis, two grains.

     Whose plainness, in turn,
     better muscle and bone
     keeps us from
     two mutual abysses.

        thirteen

     Blue Saxon Forest.
     The proximity of vision to the face.
     Smooth Cheeks - Counterweight
     cells to their end.

     A look fixed on the hell
     lit and in the shade -
     the extension of the cells there,
     where do they end.

        14

     Not love, but the meaning of cheekbones,
     superciliary arches, sound "ah"
     achieve - through the buzz
     own blood - in the mountains.

     Against them, that I, that you,
     both being black
     their snow to hell
     our faces are doomed.

        fifteen

     We will not be others! Neither
     here, not where everyone is equal.
     That's why our days
     in this place are numbered.

     Than more clearly in emphasis
     profile, porosity, full face,
     the more natural selection
     completely time with us.

        sixteen

     Blue Saxon Forest.
     Dreaming of basalt relatives.
     A world without a future, without
     - easier - tomorrow.

     We are nobody, nothing.
     The sum of faces mine with yours
     sketch of whose and after a hundred
     thousand years unique.

        17

     We will not be others! Night,
     a stream of smoke over the chimney.
     In the morning we get away from here
     down with a bitten lip.

     The sum of two decays, with two
     lives surrender - me and you.
     Billions of Snow Flies
     they will not save from poverty.

        eighteen

     The price is penny for us!
     Trump two clubs!
     I will die and you will die.
     One dog breeds in us.

     Who is this penny, how to thaw
     sharpening a tooth from around the corner?
     Sleep, opening us up, can give
     only tails and eagles.

        nineteen

     Blue Saxon Forest.
     Nasta lunar emery.
     Stillness progress,
     that is - tick tickers.

     The rented room is square.
     Bedspread from the canvas.
     Geometry of loss
     like madness is simple.

        twenty

     That is not an angel flying
     whispering: "to blame."
     That is not a vigil of two bodies.
     That’s two lamps per thousand watts

     at night, peace on the edge
     repenting white -
     my life is your life
     I couldn’t see enough.

        21

     Save for a rainy day
     each characteristic su