Кот Балу - конец прекрасной эпохи - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

The End of a Beautiful Era Because the art of poetry requires words,

I am one of the deaf, bald, gloomy ambassadors of a second-rate power, entangled with this one—

not wanting to violate my own brain, dressing myself, I go down to the kiosk

for the evening newspaper. The wind drives the leaves. The dim glow of old light bulbs

in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, with the help of puddles creates the effect of abundance.

Even thieves steal oranges, scraping the amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself—

I have forgotten that feeling. In these sad lands, everything is calculated for winter: dreams,

prison walls, coats; the toilets of brides—the whiteness of New Year's, drinks, second hands.

Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis; puritanical morals. Underwear. And in the hands of violinists—

wooden warming pads. This land is motionless. Imagining the gross volume

of cast iron and lead, you shake your head in amazement, remembering the former power on bayonets and Cossack whips.

But eagles land, like a magnet, on the iron mixture. Even wicker chairs here

are held together by bolts and nuts. Only the fish in the seas know the price of freedom; but their

muteness forces us, as it were, to create our own labels and cash registers. And space sticks out like a price list.

Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things, it seeks the properties of both in raw vegetables.

The rooster listens to the chimes. To live in an era of achievements, having a lofty character,

is unfortunately difficult. Lifting the dress of a beauty, you see what you were looking for, not new wonderful wonders. And it's not that Lobachevsky's principles are strictly observed here, but the expanding world must narrow somewhere, and here—

here is the end of perspective. Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,

or the five remaining sixths of the world are too far away. Or some good fairy

is casting a spell on me, but I can't escape from here. I pour myself some Cahors wine—I can't yell at the servant—

and scratch my cat... Either a bullet to the temple, like a finger pointing to a mistake,

or to leave here by sea as a new Christ. And how can you not confuse, with drunken eyes, dazed by the frost,

a locomotive with a ship—you still won't burn with shame:

like a boat on the water, the locomotive's wheel will leave no trace on the rails.

What do the newspapers write in the "From the Courtroom" section?

The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,

the average man will see through his tin-rimmed glasses,

a man lying face down against a brick wall;

but he is not asleep. For dreams have the right to disdain a skull

that has been pierced. The keenness of this era is rooted in those

times, incapable in their general blindness

of distinguishing those who fell out of cradles from the fallen cradles themselves.

The white-eyed Chud people don't want to look beyond death.

It's a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there's no one to turn the table with,

to ask you, Rurik. The keenness of these times is a keenness for things in a dead end.