That happy days already gone,
And world will never be all right -
Cause all the others aren't bright.
And it's all known we possess
The right to make some constant mess,
We call it 'freedom' by the way...
That inborn right to fray and pray.
I just won't say that these are wrongs …
The hundred times it's sung in songs,
The thousand times it's told by lives
Of common folk who were just wise.
I cannot say that they were right,
For modern us they don't seem bright,
Still they did not posses believes
That are the source of endless grief.
The one I call the truly wise
Is that who has no prejudice,
The one who has the clear sight,
For only he will make things right.
One day you'll act as you see fit
And thus refuse some other's bid
To make it way it ought to be,
And once you've made it - you are free.
Yet another
There were many, and were few,
And each of them was somewhat new,
Yet each was but another mew …
So soon away I always flew.
And I can't help but to forget
How meeting each I was so glad,
And how I then buried my hope...
This endless quest will never stop.
I was afraid to be alone,
But long ago those fears gone.
You know the bright sight of the thing?
This search for you gave me one wing.
Is that enough for endless fly
Up to the heaven, up for sky,
Or will I have to find that one
That will be second wing to sun?
Another one, another one ...
Such cruel joke...that ain't fun!
Reborn each time, reborn and mope!
Oh god, will this quest ever stop?!
The wing has melted, feathers lost,
I am no one, I am but ghost,
Who thought of love as of life's mother
And who for it is yet another.
There were many, but so few,
To be alone just isn't new,
I thought of each as someone other...
But each of them is yet another.
Больная тема
У меня больная темка - я не знаю, есть ли стенка,
Чтобы мне бы разбежаться, чтобы смелости набраться -
И затем в единый мах мне б разбиться в пух и прах,
Потому что без любви все мы нищие цари.
Если б знали, милы други, каково жить без подруги,
Каково любить лишь тень, когда ночь сменяет день,
Каково жить лишь работой, загрузив себя заботой,
Каково томить себя, ту любовь не подаря.
Вы не знаете, наверное, сколь та фраза страшно верна,
Что кто меньше женщин любит, тот сильней им милым будет,
И любить они готовы тех, скует им кто оковы,
И спешат отдать любовь первым встречным вновь и вновь.
Мой рассудок не сумеет, он понять их не посмеет,
Только сердце не молчит и в надежде все стучит.
Ну зачем мне, люди, сердце? Заколочена та дверца,
И отброшен в бездну ключ - мне любви не светит луч.
Нету худшего проклятья, чем забыть ее объятья,
Чем расторгнуть губ всю близость, чем тоски познать всю низость,
Чем, любовь в себе храня, избегать ее огня,
