| My friends have become stingy with their words,
|
| In the eyes of longing, an indelible light,
|
| And walk with bandaged foreheads,
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| In the prime of life, in the prime of life
|
| And walk with bandaged foreheads,
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| In the prime of life, in the prime of life
|
| My friends don't write, don't read,
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| And they don't care about social problems,
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| And walk with bandaged foreheads
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| In the prime of life, in the prime of life
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| My friends abandoned their guitars
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| They don't care: what is midnight, what is dawn,
|
| And walk with bandaged foreheads
|
| In the prime of life, in the prime of life
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| My friends booked tickets
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| To that world
|
| And walk with bandaged foreheads
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| In the prime of life, in the prime of life
|
| — Excuse me, when did you write this song?
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| - This song? |
| In the 80th year! |
| And what?
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| “Wake up, today is the 87th, perestroika!” |
| your song is not
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| relevant, it reflects the shortcomings of past years! |
| Because now
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| it’s not at all necessary to break your forehead and in general ...
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| - But you also forgive me, you didn’t listen to the song to the end,
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| it hasn't ended yet. |
| I recently added another verse,
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| By the way, in the light of recent changes. |
| And look what
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| this happened. |
| Now I'll finish it!
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| My friends are now generous with their word,
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| Yes, they don’t think to remove bandages:
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| The rumor swept, as if soon again
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| You have to bandage your foreheads |