I will once die - we are once always dying, -
How to guess so that it is not myself - to a knife in the back:
Killed germanly, span and indulgerarily walled, -
I will not tell about the living, but the dead we save.
In the dirt he hit the face, I will burst the painful side -
And blow the soul on the stolen crumbs in the gallop,
In the wonderful paradise gardens, gain pale pink apples ...
It is a pity, the guards of the watchman and shoot without a blunder in the forehead.
Specked - I look - before the eyes are not paradise something:
Non-shaped wasteland and solid nothing - chaos.
And among nothing overvalued gates,
And a huge stage - thousand five - sat on his knees.
How the root is native! I humbled his tender word
Yes, Repia from the rocked barely walked and slammed the mane.
The gray-haired old man tumbled for too long with the Casov -
And the cruck and grumbled, and could not turn around - and left.
And exhausted people did not publish a single moan,
Only squatting suddenly moved from the numb knee.
Here, raspberries, a lady, - we are met with a raspberry ringing!
Everything returned to the circle, and hung over the circle.
We give all the benefits, and how much did I need a lot of good?!
I - so that there were friends, yes my wife - to fell on the coffin -
Well, I'll get a pale pink apples for them ...
It is a pity, the guards of the watchman and shoot without a blunder in the forehead.
I learned the old man in tears on the cheeks of his flabby:
This is Peter Saint - he is the apostle, and I am unsolving.
Here are a bush-gardens, in which the buzzing of ice cream apples ...
But the guards of the watchman - and I am killed without a mischief in the forehead.
And I drove the horses away from the places of these rotten and dick, -
Horses ask oats, but I also bounced.
Along the cliff with the whip over the abyss of the sinus apples
For you, I will bring: you waited for me and from Paradise!
Vladimir Vysotsky