Текст песни Голубые береты - Горячий телефон
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Телефонный звонок из рая в ад, телефонная горечь войны...
От беспомощной боли руки горят - прикоснувшись к словам беды.
Раскаленная горем, трубка кричит, умоляя лишь дать ответ,
То озноб по спине, то восторг не молчит - если в списках погибших нет...
Мозг как пристань чужих надежд, коммутатор обид и зла,
Виновата не трубка не телефон - виновата во всем война.
Привкус крови чужой на губах и чужая беда как своя...
Виноват не тот кто трубку берет, виноват кто послал туда.
Шаг за шагом квартал за кварталом горит, но сильнее огня приказ.
Ведь присягу давали мы именно тем, кто заочно уж предал нас.
И простит меня мать что кричит в телефон, я не знаю еще ответ,
Я отдал бы всю жизнь, чтоб ответить тебе -"Сына в списках погибших нет!"
Мозг как пристань чужих надежд, коммутатор обид и зла,
Виновата не трубка не телефон - виновата во всем война.
Привкус крови чужой на губах и чужая беда как своя...
Виноват не тот кто трубку берет, виноват кто послал туда.
Привкус крови чужой на губах
И чужая беда - как своя.
Виноват не тот, кто трубку берет,
Виноват - кто послал туда...
A phone call from heaven to hell, the bitterness of war ...
From helpless pain the hands burn - touching the words of trouble.
Grief-stricken, the pipe screams, begging only to give an answer,
Then the chill on the back, then the delight is not silent - if the lists of the dead do not ...
The brain as a wharf of other people's hopes, a switchboard of resentment and evil,
It's not the phone that's to blame, it's the war that's to blame.
The taste of a stranger's blood on his lips and another's trouble as his own ...
It's not the one who blames the receiver, it's the fault of who sent it.
Step by step quarter after quarter burns, but stronger than fire orders.
After all, we gave the oath to those who had already betrayed us in absentia.
And my mother will forgive me for shouting at the phone, I do not know yet the answer,
I would give all my life to answer you - "Son in the lists of the dead do not!"
The brain as a wharf of other people's hopes, a switchboard of resentment and evil,
It's not the phone that's to blame, it's the war that's to blame.
The taste of a stranger's blood on his lips and another's trouble as his own ...
It's not the one who blames the receiver, it's the fault of who sent it.
The taste of a stranger's blood on his lips
And someone else's trouble - as his own.
It's not the one who takes the phone,
It's to blame - who sent there ...
From helpless pain the hands burn - touching the words of trouble.
Grief-stricken, the pipe screams, begging only to give an answer,
Then the chill on the back, then the delight is not silent - if the lists of the dead do not ...
The brain as a wharf of other people's hopes, a switchboard of resentment and evil,
It's not the phone that's to blame, it's the war that's to blame.
The taste of a stranger's blood on his lips and another's trouble as his own ...
It's not the one who blames the receiver, it's the fault of who sent it.
Step by step quarter after quarter burns, but stronger than fire orders.
After all, we gave the oath to those who had already betrayed us in absentia.
And my mother will forgive me for shouting at the phone, I do not know yet the answer,
I would give all my life to answer you - "Son in the lists of the dead do not!"
The brain as a wharf of other people's hopes, a switchboard of resentment and evil,
It's not the phone that's to blame, it's the war that's to blame.
The taste of a stranger's blood on his lips and another's trouble as his own ...
It's not the one who blames the receiver, it's the fault of who sent it.
The taste of a stranger's blood on his lips
And someone else's trouble - as his own.
It's not the one who takes the phone,
It's to blame - who sent there ...