О чём я печалюсь

Over the fields again fog, Woe from Wit
Clinking of glasses , screaming until dark , brawl , mat.
Like a country and as a country , but is cut the rope ,
That we had tied , and without regard Khan.
A lot of us need to Mademoiselle , and whose fault is that we have and the part.
Such a fate , but it does not mean that we should be silent .
In the spirit of the people has withered , as you do not try to shake it -
Ash felled stead grew poisonous oro .
Weekdays make growling , but not awaken and part
Gleam thoughts occasionally sparkle through the revelry children
Grass, clutching his head , rush to the doctor
With horror, despite the rising of their own children.
Then fit to scream, it saddens us with whips met
Chest pain conception shakes on hands desperately ,
Trying to find out who is responsible for everything
To ask : & quot; So it was all planned or was an accident ? & Quot;
Futile attempts to understand who we are here at all
Wood-Cutting generous hand , does flying splinters .
How many people flawed then processed in the rubble
boulders , to try to find among them the death Kashcheev .
So slavishly , but in the kitchen singing Yegor Letov
In these cells Deviatiny where only the tele ballet. here
sleep and see the summer that would chill vanished without a trace.
Escape from captivity and live quite great,
Clouds go for Lena , hail iskhlestalo fields
Silhouettes on the crosses of those who jealously firing from below.
Can I be sad one , and others to be happy,
at the same time , living in the same world?