Violin death Bashny.Net

< Misha Campfires



Of course, I would like you to carefully count.

Occasionally, when you do not trample on other continents dust.

On the palms of your past zealously read,

Frivolous chatter, despite everything, to take for profit.

What you should be in all of your minutes reach thousands,

Select me at least twelve to twenty accidents?

Kindly listen, otherwise I will have to carve,

For what laughs blissfully fun!

I know that your heart is pounding at his chest cuirass,

Just before you see the window in front of, behind tulle thread,

Boy with violin Matthias Albani,

Rip off the pain of the pads of Alfred Schnittke.

I'm not sure that it was he - rather his music unheard carelessness - Something about freedom from what you just can not quench,

Unexpected turns, and throws in a fading seconds eternity,

With that you to death can not be reconciled.

Your heart is, the blood thickens in my veins, the brain is clouded,

You are like a rabbit, frozen at the entrance to the bridge boa.

At this point, you are like a fine art of death.

I would like to count on you, if only just a dare.