Текст песни Сергей Садовников - Иосиф Бродский - Муха

I

     While you sang, autumn has come.
     Luchina melted the stove.
     While you were singing and flying
     it got colder.

     Now you slowly crawl along the surface
     trashy plate without looking
     where you came from in April.
     Now you barely

     move around. And it costs nothing
     kill you. But as a historian,
     death for which is more boring than flour,
     I'm lingering, fly.

        II

     While you were singing and flying, the leaves
     hit. And it's easier to pour
     water to the ground, so back from the puddle
     take a closer look.

     And you, you see, are completely blinded. Can
     imagine the color of a grain of a brain
     faded from yours, paving stones
     akin to the retina,

     and shudder. But you, perhaps
     satisfied with the stale spirit
     housing, green curtains drowsy.
     Life dragged on.

        III

     Ah, clatter, having lost their brilliance,
     you look like an old junker
     like a black documentary frame
     distant era.

     Aren't you midnight there now and then
     buzzed over my cradle,
     driven in a window frame
     spotlights?

     And now, honey, my yellow nail
     touch your abdomen
     and you do not tremble with fear
     buzzing girlfriend.

        IV

     While you were singing, the window is gray
     intensified. And the door sat down
     in grooves from dampness. And heels freeze.
     My house is in decline.

     But don't captivate you not with a pyramid
     earthenware not washed for a long time
     dishes in the sink nor a tent
     sugars are sweet.

     You don’t care. Do not you
     to cupronickel rubbish;
     contacting her is more expensive.
     Me, however, too.

        V

     How old-fashioned are your wings, legs!
     They seem to have a great-grandmother's veil,
     mixed with yesterday
     french tower -

     - century number nineteen, in a word.
     But, comparing with that and ov
     I turn you into a profit
     your doom

     nudging the handle
     you to ethereal thought, to complete
     intangibility ahead of schedule.
     Sorry: cruel.

        VI

     What are you dreaming of? About my battered
     but no orbits calculated by anyone?
     About the letter six-armed, for the sake of
     you in a notebook

     spotted in place flat
     echoes of cyrillic
     the only one whose color has happened
     you recognized

     and fluttered. And now, blind
     you do not react, yielding
     springboard for live brunettes, female
     grimaces, gestures.

        VII

     While you sang and flew, birds
     departed from here. In the streams of the carpentry
     diminished, and in the groves is empty.
     Cabbage crunches

     in the fields from the cold, although dressed
     in the winter. And a bomb somewhere
     the alarm is ticking, the face is not accurate,
     and the explosion is expired.

     And more - nothing is heard.
     Houses cast light
     back to the cloud. The grass has withered.
     A little creepy.

        VIII

     And only two of us are now contagious
     peddlers. Germs, phrases
     equally capable of hitting the living.
     There are only two of us:

     your body fearing death
     mine playing farmers
     with education, about eight
     pounds. Plus autumn.

     Your hummer has completely gone bad!
     But I don’t feel sorry for myself
     waste on us. Say thank you,
     that - slowly

        IX

     which is completely disdainful, either -
     doesn't feel what linden
     palm off to him in the form of lethargic
     big and small

     frustrations. You flew off.
     For time, however, old age
     and youth are indistinguishable.
     Reasons for him

     and the consequences are alien to de jure,
     and the data is in thumbnail
     -- especially. Like fingers in a hurry
     - eagles and tails.

        X

     It, while you flashed yourself there