Текст песни Белая Гвардия - В контексте вечности

I sit in the kitchen on an old chair in a cold house,
Laugh at the phrase - say, a man is not the place makes.
Life is primitive, as primitive poems in the album,
They write schoolgirl even handwriting in the senior class.

As if the morning. In a frying pan scorched toast.
Elevator rumbles. Aged Kettle croaks hoarsely.
The neighbor left out the trash, steps behind the wall,
And forever it seems like breakfast in front.

Above the roof Boeing loosens heavy clouds plow.
Chilled dove tormented beak crust of bread.
Forgotten doll on a bench looking with dismay
At infinity, hopeless mediocrity sky.

Lies in the newspapers became more expensive. Soared fee
On shamelessly vulgar cud airtime.
The war in Ossetia spreads black blot,
Crawling like caterpillars, tanks on the world map.

Show on map: that's Gori and Tskhinvali here,
There were people went to visit, seething passion.
One shot, Good God, the other blew up.
Murder - noun synonymous with power.

Includes music, drowning grief.
Through sobs of mourners breaks moan Caucasus
Polyphony beautiful mountains, sea surprise ...
Death unreal. In the context of eternity - just a phase.

Scourge of bread on a wet edge. Well, what can you do?
Screaming so loud, that was heard throughout the universe?
The thought of the cramped inside and the creeps.
Scourge of the brow. Imperfect. Imperfect ...