| Let in the midnight tavern,
|
| There was music for us
|
| A boy with a guitar in his hand
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| Played without opening eyes
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| A little worried, as if for the first time
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| The blind boy sang to us again
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| Not about distant Magadan
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| Not about prison
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| Not about love
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| He sang us a song about Afghanistan
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| Barely hearing her, the restaurant froze.
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| And tears rolled down his cheeks
|
| Perhaps he remembered that terrible moment
|
| When suddenly I stopped seeing flowers and stars
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| Smiles of girls, sunset and morning.
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| He sang in this song about
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| How he fought in that war
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| And as with Andryukha fellow countryman
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| Missed home and Spring
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| About how his friend then burned down in the fire.
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| He told in this song
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| About how closely I saw death
|
| About how blue eyes could then still look
|
| And as he told the doctor that he wanted to die.
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| And tears rolled down his cheeks
|
| Perhaps he remembered that terrible moment,
|
| When suddenly I stopped seeing flowers and stars
|
| Smiles of girls, sunset and morning.
|
| He sang about how orders
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| Give posthumously to boys
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| And like a great country
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| They do not hear the cry of unfortunate mothers
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| Whose sons are carried home by tulips.
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| When he finished singing, he took a glass and drained it to the bottom.
|
| And the restaurant revived
|
| And only one phrase is heard
|
| May you be thrice cursed by the war,
|
| And tears rolled down his cheeks,
|
| And tears rolled down his cheeks
|
| Perhaps he remembered that terrible moment
|
| When suddenly I stopped seeing flowers and stars
|
| Smiles of girls sunset and morning. |