Текст песни Владимир Артамонов - Букет, подаренный не мной

Bouquet, presented by me,
Such a hand
That I am forever deprived of peace
Trying the thought of one.
Bouquet, presented by me,
Ascended on the windowsill,
Who is he, lucky fan
Her smiles unearthly?
Bouquet, presented by me,
Frams lust.
And here draws my mind
Pictures of terrible treason.
Bouquet, presented by me,
Worries his head black
And I love, and I am jealous
The fact that call my spring.
I'm afraid that even a kiss
Do not heal the soul of the patient.
And yet I am a whole,
Look, as I use it,
Bouquet, presented by me,
Bouquet, presented not by me.