beat
Асташов - The Only Track
3:52 • Alternative Rock
181kb 5МБ 31 9
Описание
All that doesn't kill us, plainly,
Only makes us stronger still.
Happy is the one who sanely
Keeps the foam of days from will.
It's a blessing to believe it —
You're a law unto your own,
You can just pull Valera's sleeve and
Say: "Get lost, away, begone."
Out to where the nameless vanish,
None returning evermore.
Now I'll be my own new Spanish
Inquisition — judge, rapport.
Dropped the teddy on the flooring —
Let it lie, who cares a bit.
And until they start the goring,
One can manage not to bleat.
Our decrepit, shaky cottage
Welcomes all who come inside.
News is scarce, a painful shortage,
And the good ones — still denied,
Yet the soul, on hope relying,
Catches glimpses of its plight,
Undisguised, no clothing plying,
Sees itself and whispers: "Right."
Blown up shapeless, you've no reason
To lament in well-fed peace,
Yet, indulging self's own season,
Counting sins brings no release.
Choke on all our bitter sorrow,
Never did our joy obtain
From the foes beyond blue morrow
Any backing. Clear and plain:
Set up seven plates or twenty,
Feed the eighth one from your hand.
Seven won't get what it's plenty
Wishing — closed the circle's band.
I hold fortune by its tail, free,
Spite of troubles, thick and thin.
Something extra, please, for me to
Know that luck has pulled me in.
Is the contract drafted rightly?
Sign it in two places, please.
Pity, happiness is flighty,
And in tow it brings unease —
Fear of what will follow, keeping
"If — then" logic's iron track.
"Else" is always foully creeping,
"Yet" it never ushers back.
Wash us clean by every means and
Hold us up by moral scheme —
Still at once we wake with keen and
Selfish hypocrite agleam.
Maybe I'll arise tomorrow,
Early, ere the dew is shed,
Play "Carmen" to chase all sorrow —
Carried off to heavens spread.
Then, a sip of what our Peter
Saved for morning hangover,
I'll fly back to kids — a cheater,
Not yet ripe to start it over.
To the tow, and from the scratch, go
To new life — the only track.
Did the gypsy, in her patch, though,
Read your fate for nothing, jack?
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