Текст песни Андрей Макаревич и ОКТ - В день рождения подарок

Bulat Okudzhava

On my birthday, I presented a gift myself.
Son then takes it - voiced and play on the pipe.
I had somehow so, by itself,
Something average between the song and the fate.

I sit in front of the fireplace drawn in the corner,
Old poodle stretched under his feet on the floor.
Let the pipe, son, the melody will play,
That from the heart came out - does not burn quickly.

We float the night Moscow between the sky and the earth,
Someone indulges next to black ash and ash.
If only only in fuss will not play
Or in vain this century, son, got?

Well, play, my son is curly, that melody in the night.
Let her pick up and other trumpeters.
We should not be afraid to fear
But we will not pretend happy.