music - Paul Moria, lyrics - DedBazhan
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More than once, probably, each of us
Return, at least for a moment, to your school class,
And on waxed floor once
Pass, with a smile, past the desk.
And on the green wall stop your gaze
Where a number of portraits have been hanging for so many years;
And with them, pundits look
Extras on faded cards.
And I, of course, in my dreams are extremely happy
make the journey 40 years ago
where our school garden has long turned yellow.
So sorry that the summer flew by!
I look, furtively, back in seventy-sixth:
you are above a copybook, a sheet of paper
bent over in a simple school dress
brown cloth.
How dear to me is the warm light of your smart eyes
and tail of hair, grabbed with a simple rubber band.
And I’m hoping for the hundredth time myself,
that for you I mean something in this world.
So little is needed for happiness to the poor youth:
Flush the flares in the arrow to the Utrez,
Look in my overcoat pocket to my father,
Shoot a cigarette from the pack.
And so she couldn’t make a choice.
Between a guitar, a blue sky and hockey.
And we swallowed closely, around the corner,
For five, one cheap port.
The memory of dreams from childhood dreams is disturbing
at breaks the blood begins to boil,
and the sunny bunny walks again
in a spacious school office.
I understand that we are all here - one family,
and now my friends will come in,
which I will no longer see -
there are no others in this world ...
