Текст песни Борис Пастернак - Брюсову

I congratulate you as I father
Congratulations in the same setting.
It’s a pity that in the big theater under the hearts
They will not make mats like under their feet.
It’s a pity that in the world it’s customary to scrape
There are soles at the entrance to life; sorry
That the past laughs and is sad
And the spite of the day is swinging a stick.
You are honored. A little scary rite
Where you, as a thing, will be shown from all sides
And the gold of fate will silver
And, perhaps, silver will be obligated in response.
What can I say? What is Bryusov’s bitter
Widely scattered fate?
What does the mind stale in the kingdom of a fool?
What not a trinket to smile, tormented?
What a sleepy civic verse
You opened the door to the city first?
That the wind dared husk from citizenship
And we tore the wings to feathers?
What did you discipline swing
Frenzied rhymes reaching for clay
And they were brownies in our houses
And the devil of non-childish discipline?
That then I might not die
What, to death, now tired of the gili,
You yourself, there was a time in the morning
Ruler taught us not to die?
Breaking through the door of vulgar axioms
Where do the words and eloquence lie? ...
ABOUT! All Shakespeare, perhaps, is only
Which easily talks with the shadow of Hamlet.
So easily! Birthdays are.
Tell me, shadow, what did you want for him?
It's easier to live like that. And then almost do not tear down
Experienced audible complaints.