...
blue-black space where we,
and inexperienced about how I,
and white-breasted, which is not about us -
eyes are bottomless, a sip of water.
Fly, fly, my swallow a bullet in his head.
Fly, fly, my girl, Wali me down.
Fly, fly, my seed, do not let me date
think about what I could and had not had time.
this song was written in one day - in my attic villa with a huge window, hot summer in the air napoennom lime color ... and I do not understand. no-che st. and none of We, in my opinion, still did not understand. and we had a lot, something we have decided, quarreled, reconciled and fuss. We all - each in its own way - loved Dranti we all something advised, somewhere he pushed, something he dreamed of, but he had one finger, as among us, and our garden of Gethsemane. Disappeared for days on end, returning and looked into my eyes ... and sometimes dream of me at the open window, so as I would have ...
and now I listen and think: well, where I flew it? why me? why for me? because he was not going anywhere to go. he would simply live.
And sometimes I think it's a blessing or a curse. Well, that's exactly in these terms ...
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