We are with you, dear field commander Cohen,
took not cities, but neighborhoods, provincial monparnasse.
And some birds fall from the dilapidated bell towers.
The world was small, but beautiful, and sometimes funny.
In the horizon the arrow has left the mound,
which tomorrow was supposed to train back.
The bridge of the last century were full of children.
The citadel, long-legged, freckled miss Virtue
gradually gave up. Of course, the first on the belt
and then too, as usual... About vendetta
the city dreamed of all the muster area.
Those old, hot, fabulous night
the whole world spun uleu on the dark man's beginning,
if on axis, sung during it
a Komsomol member, a sportswoman, having no knowledge of sorrow.
And the stars shone through holes in the roof on the barn,
like nowhere, never, not at whose uniform.
Dear field commander, we knew a lot about the moonshine,
and the mysterious cuckoo, cuckoo insinuating
not afraid of bungee-jumping and motorcycle racing...
Now, years later, when the day of effusions out of the tub
icy... well not Ended, they say, was oblitas,
whatever you do, and the top gradually taking fatigue...
Desperately want to believe that if you had a soul,
it is somewhere in those times remained.