Текст песни Сплин - Пишу тебе

I am writing to you from cloudy edges,
Where the rain filled the city to the edges
Water in which everything is reflected
And everything does not turn into wine.

I am writing to you from the northern latitudes!
Live fish here is dead sprat.
Here are puddles - a third of water and two - gasoline.
The SIM card always does not contrast here.

I am writing to you from the southern shores
Where is closely on Olympus from the gods.
Where the beaches were empty in October,
Where everything reminds of you.

I am writing to you from those monasteries
In which there are no windows or doors.
There is nothing, and honestly,
That there is no monastery itself.

I am writing to you, and looking at the sunset,
As a person who gave his life for so,
I look, rushing into the heat or chills,
How the skyscraper falls to the ground.

I am writing to you on top of the brick walls,
I am writing on Novgorod birch bark.
So they write on scraps, on the shreds,
Get blind that without glasses and that are with glasses.

I am writing to you that I'm flying home.
What is soon parting down.
I am writing, as long as a red traffic light.
I write until the iPhone ends.

Any things will turn into trash.
No one remembers who built the temple.
Such a life is not sugar or silk.
Here they remember only the one who has set the temple.

P.S. I write to you, I write!
Hello to you ! You - and the baby!
It is so long to build a temple and burn in a moment.
Only the one who erected this temple erected.