Текст песни Polsha - Мираж

To the sleeping city, like fog... it's a word-for-word reference—
Once she caught us off guard, and I'm sure she'll come back again.
I didn't know I could be a gentle oriole.
I don't care about "revolt," it's like I'm thirteen again.
And if you chase us away, we'll become wanderers.

Sorry, but there won't be anything left of us.

I agreed to the contract: you are our death, I am the messenger.
It's just that we've already grown too fond of it.

And they sent me here to be the saddest one.
With your time cards, I'll pull the trigger to my temple and wake up.
I'll put on my jacket, Furkasovsky: "3 minutes, wait."
So that I can hear again that I am your soul, and I am your happiness.

And these kitsch patterns will reflect the worthless. And, you know, I can cross them out and make them black.
Filled with skepticism, hiding behind interest,
You know, I can cut them out of the very heart.
They etch the decanter's edge just a little,
And forgive me, Goddess, I'm a prophet, but I screwed up.

And to the atrium—pliers—the memory of a self-proclaimed candidate.
For her—I'll cut any world out of the very heart.

A burden for Bereginya—sign, this is yours.
Forgive me, Goddess, your prophet, he's just an ordinary alcoholic.

She tried with willpower and again succumbed to rage—

"It seemed, it seemed, my dear, it's just a mirage."

And the sleeping city, like fog—a reference to Casanova.
She hums to herself. He won't come back anymore—he's leaving.
If you ruin me like this, the course is—to vanish into oblivion without a fight.
My skin is razor-sharp, as if we were thirteen again.
You'll drive us away, we'll disappear, we won't bother you.
Smoking and convincing you it was your mistake.

You can't find me at the front doors—what's the point of hiding the reflections there?
Mom will call: "Well, how are you?" "Mom, every day is a nuisance."

They sent me here so that I would be the saddest one here.
I'm just a tasteless carbon copy of those vile writers.
These ruined lives for the sake of goals and gossip.
I hated them. And what do we see? Now I'm one of "those" too.
(They sent me here) so that I would be the most miserable here.
They doomed us, forced us to tear ourselves apart.
We leave them with us, we leave, now where can we go?
Because for me, you are also happiness and my heart.

And these kitsch patterns will reflect the worthless.
And, you know, I can cross them out, and make them black.
Filled with skepticism, hiding behind interest,
You know, I can cut them out of the very heart.
They etch the decanter's edge just a little,
And forgive me, goddess, I'm a prophet, but I screwed up.

And to the atrium—pliers—the memory of a self-proclaimed candidate.
For her, I will cut any world out of the very heart.
A burden for Bereginya—sign, this is yours.
Forgive me, Goddess, your prophet, he's just an ordinary alcoholic.
I tried with willpower and again slid into a frenzy—
"It seemed so, it seemed so, my dear, it's just a mirage."

I hate your Ragnarok, how many lives, do you hear, are going to hell?
And we were people, don't pretend it had nothing to do with it.
I'm a hermit in the forest. Here's my threshold, and here's the door.
If I need it from the heart, it's easier to go straight to the heart itself.
I'm left alone with myself, with such a mission.
After all, I am her, and without her, there's no point in me.
Having gotten stoned with the dust of grief from your angelic wings,
I let you down, Goddess. I'm a prophet. I screwed up.
A light burden for the capillaries—sign this page.
Forgive me, Goddess, junk fog—to forget.
Lull me to sleep one last time, seeing me off on your imaginary voyage:
"It seemed so, it seemed so, my dear, it's just a mirage."