Текст песни Арья Макгрейн - О любви, поэтах и любви к поэтам

Listen up Just sit down and listen.
I don’t like to say - but now I’ll say:
What is mine? Love that stranglehold.
What is it about her? I can’t understand it myself.

Everything is like everyone else - and the inner light, and
butterflies in the body, and "embrace the whole world" ...
Just squeezing like a lash
if I feel: sweet to someone sweet.
I'm ordinary. That is ... like everyone else. And okay
I don't care, but I depend on the rest:
someone will at least say a word to me a little coolly -
My world is destroyed, the genius inside has quieted down.

And I don’t write - I grumble about the stupidity,
Like, what-is-I-yes-who-needed?
Only love - well, what news is it! -
All over and over again takes and saves me.

Okay, if I saved - I would have endured it silently,
But people say "love is evil ..."
I agree with that. Who can love a poet?
Rarely anyone can. However, I could.

And I continue, - do not cut out this feeling, -
And remember how a few years ago
thought: "People from art
They can’t be together. Their destiny is to write.
... maybe talk about high ...
How can these two live together? "
Here's what I’ll say: if creativity beats current,
then the creator is in love with
who helped create.

Here's what I’ll say: not falling in love with a poet is difficult,
Just to love is, perhaps, even more difficult.
Why? It’s impossible for a poet
See a hint where it is in the order of things:

The poet will read, and perhaps listen,
He just doesn’t understand: it’s all for him.
That's why love, as a noose, strangles ...
... exactly. I still understand why!

So please - don’t fall in love with poets at all,
Yes, and the poet does not call everyone, but only worthy ones.
I can always tell you this
Only with the number of lines does prestige grow
What I do not need. 'Cause I ain't never a poet
But for the poet is ready to write poetry
And look for a rhyme, and a more successful phrase,
So that everyone would be surprised then, how words are easy,

so that everyone admires: my words are all supposedly melting,
Everything is melting and melting like ice on the tongue ...

As for the poet, the poet, I know, reads.
And he thinks that he is not reading about himself.