Текст песни Булат Окуджава - Мне русские милы из давней прозы

I pretty Russian prose of the old
and Pushkin's verse.
Me to the heart of their laziness, and laughter, and tears,
and bitterness on his lips. When they are sitting in the kitchen of the old
at the mercy of strange thoughts,
their bitter fate, podzvuchenny guitar
sarcastic and moody. When the crowd screams and moans at the bottom,
that - proud and honored to mind?
They are small, so that does not cost anything
counted on the fingers. Me to the heart of their faith and patience,
disbelief and rage ...
Who knew it would be a terrible awakening
and the landscape outside the window? Well, another century. Dispel all the myths.
Defeated minds.
Everywhere you look - all & quot; Scythians, the Scythians, the Scythians ...
Their darkness, and darkness, and the darkness & quot ;. And sadly look around this land,
where anger and firing,
I think that Russian does not present,
and instead of them - the crowd. I know this world is not hearsay:
I sprouted from it,
and for his loss and excess
with me today demand.