Текст песни Поющий катамаран - Истина

This city is called Moscow,
This street, like a thread, is narrow.
This room is a double-bottomed barrel
And here comes a woman alone.

Between the collarbones of her round beads
He tastes each one with his lips.
He rips them off, like droplets,
And she stands like a girl, clean.

Is it the devil who invented her or God,
It was Pushkin or Blok who dreamed of it.
And to whom was it bequeathed for centuries
This dark, chiseled hand

Those gray sad pupils
All the bolts, all the locks were opened.
All palaces and all houses are subject to her.
It is the truth itself that comes into your house.

Kings drove her from the throne,
Ships were carried off to the world.
Remained to guard the coast
Lies are a homeless woman, money-libertine.

And she wrung her hands like rays
And tore the chains of beads from the collarbones.
And they lay down weighing the globe,
On the straight palms of the truth itself.

This city is called Moscow,
This street is like a narrow thread.
This room is a barrel with two bottoms
And here comes a woman alone.

Between the collarbones of her round beads
He tastes each one with his lips.
He rips them off, like droplets,
And she stands like a girl, clean.