Текст песни Булат Окуджава - Музыкант играл на скрипке

Musician playing the violin, I looked into his eyes,
I do not that I was curious - I was flying through the sky.
I'm not that out of boredom, I was hoping to see
How to know how these hands to extract these sounds

Of some of wood, from some pale veins,
Of some kind of fantasy, which he served.
And in fact it is necessary to us to penetrate the soul and ignite.
And what with her ceremony, which it protected.

Happy is the house where the singing violin instructs us on the path.
And gives us hope; the rest - somehow.
Happy tool pressed against the angular shoulders,
By whose blessing I'm flying through the sky.

Happy is the one whose path is short, fingers sleight,
Musician, he built a fire of my soul.
And the soul, that's for sure, if burned,
Just, merciful and righteous it.