The time will come, I will write my best verse, perhaps
The yellow field of sunflowers has withered and
I'm gone, the slut is tired of changing
It will wither in the same way, but in the attic and only
Until winter. Not reaching the top will give hope
And those who are nearby will be there even in a snowstorm
I wouldn't get out of bed for a week, shaking off
There are ashes on the floor, and, they say, drink
Cough wheels, my dear one takes me to work
Resin on a wire - a guide for tourists to paradise
I won't lie, I'll share my stash with him.
Well, the one in the attic, but that's only in winter
Time flies, I didn’t party not because I don’t have the energy, but
Because I'm busy writing an album
Let there be a bomb, even for those who are alive
And I'll stick to the window, waiting for the snow
My autumn does not sleep and sadness does not sleep
The soul is warmed by a field of small luminaries
I admire them, because they are children of the sun
But they will all wither there, but for now
My autumn does not sleep and sadness does not sleep
The soul is warmed by a field of small luminaries
I admire them, because they are children of the sun
But they will all wither there, but for now
Well, while we’re growing our sides here, I’ll finish my glass
But not wine, but milk, I remember my mother calling me
As a child, I gave all the light and warmth
I want to be not a blabbermouth, but a grateful son
And sometimes we spend our warmth on the wrong things
Who stands up for you and gives love from the heart
And they are all like a yellow sea of sunflowers
They will wither if your rains don't come
Silence is in great demand! Hold it once or twice
I'll spin around in a dance with smoke, holding my breath
I'm not a mechanic, but I can take a beat apart with my ear
That's what a slut does
We drag our hollow heads into the lair
We start with sadness under a dreary minus
Shoot me in the back, I won’t budge
It's a pity that you can't hide sunflowers in the attic
My autumn does not sleep and sadness does not sleep
The soul is warmed by a field of small luminaries
I admire them, because they are children of the sun
But they will all wither there, but for now
My autumn does not sleep and sadness does not sleep
The soul is warmed by a field of small luminaries
I admire them, because they are children of the sun
But they will all wither there, but for now
My autumn does not sleep and sadness does not sleep
The soul is warmed by a field of small luminaries
I admire them, because they are children of the sun
But they will all wither there, but for now
