Текст песни Антон Трофимов - Сентябрь

And it’s time to wonder at the rains,
And it’s time to wonder at the words
Yellow leaves, floating in the white wind to the west,
Showered in empty spaces
The bell pay for the summer past us
On a stone left by August a heated smell.

September. In the naked parks, there are chairs at the summer cafes.
This is a sad symptom of dying summer.
September. The wind is breaking like a saxophonist in a fool.
Only it all seemed to me that the play was not at all about that.

And the time will come for the cold in the morning
And it’s time to return to the circle -
To the midnight calls and the old windows shivering through and through.
In them is the drawing of your coldly folded hands,
Spark of my cigarette or all of a sudden
A yellow sheet, as if ashore, thrown in the rain by glass.