Текст песни Mrak - Сметь поэта

Death of a Poet

It was therefore shallow and neyarok,
quarrelsome, and slightly nonsense.
The life of the poet, and so is not a gift,
but in old age - and does longing.

Oshivayutsya of engagement
Yes handouts knock down the quiet ...
And he was a bustle of client
From childhood navidet could not.

Popularity is not spoiled,
he told her he has never himself censers.
He was looking, he worked with the word
and sometimes I found something.

And at night I curled over the lamp
its smoke cheap cigarettes.
Well, that God has not given talents,
No guilt, no trouble him not.

We walked from the community cards of different suits,
but it was always
all you need for happiness poet -
wives, children, disease, destitution.

He is in the mud, floundering in a subject,
and when it saw what was happening,
the short time elapsed,
that it has been released.

And it opened up a bottomless Summer,
and looked indifferent people
as the cold body of the poet
carried feet first.

And it ended in darkness,
This funky meaningless run.
All around stretched wide
white shroud sparkling snow ...