| Time does not wait, it crawls away on its haunches, like smoke through a window.
|
| And two times, I tried to hold it, but only his sleeves were in my hands.
|
| Everything is fine, but he takes with him in his suitcases rags that are not his own.
|
| With happiness, pants and birth in my shirt.
|
| Chorus:
|
| Without them, I am a monument! |
| I am a target for pigeons on a foggy morning.
|
| And the pendulum of my ideas seemed to hit the concrete.
|
| The lines no longer bend, frozen in the arms of frost.
|
| Only the inscriptions of passers-by: "I was here ..."
|
| Time, like a bird, strives, and a cloud will fall on the eyelashes of years.
|
| Will not be repeated. |
| And measuring life, one unit remained ...
|
| And let him go, but only leave me a bunch of keys to the dresser,
|
| With shelves of dust from the joy of past days.
|
| Chorus:
|
| Without them, I am a monument! |
| I am a target for pigeons on a foggy morning.
|
| And the pendulum of my ideas seemed to hit the concrete.
|
| The lines no longer bend, frozen in the arms of frost.
|
| Only the inscriptions of passers-by: "I was here ..."
|
| Those who are at risk often read crooked notes in the kitchen:
|
| “Soon I will disappear as a midday shadow, take care of me!” Signature: “Time”.
|
| Let him disappear, with his departure on the roads, he covers my trail,
|
| Leaving me as a gift one inevitability.
|
| Chorus:
|
| Without them, I am a monument! |
| I am a target for pigeons on a foggy morning.
|
| And the pendulum of my ideas seemed to hit the concrete.
|
| The lines no longer bend, frozen in the arms of frost.
|
| Only the inscriptions of passers-by: "I was here ..."
|
| I am a monument! |
| I am a target for pigeons on a foggy morning.
|
| And the pendulum of my ideas seemed to hit the concrete.
|
| The lines no longer bend, frozen in the arms of frost.
|
| Only the inscriptions of passers-by: "I was here ..." |