Guitar, clock and wallpaper with airplanes

Lyrics

Here are some translations in prose from original Russian lyrics.

Letter I

Everyone of us has his own "me",
It's nearby us everywhere and always,
But we shouldn't trust it all the time,
Neither never listen to it.

Everyone of us has his own "me",
And our "me"-s get acquainted and become friends,
They keep looking into the mirror for hours, but worse
If they don't see themselves there.

Horrible, gigantic,
Gorgeous, immodest,
Everyone of us has his own "me".

Everyone of us has his own "me",
It stares at us when we write,
And whispers into our ears very softly:
"Put more "me" into the text!"

Everyone of us has his own "me",
It grows huge in disputes,
And it will stay on our side in every quarrel,
Because we are best friends with our "me"-s.

Horrible, gigantic,
Gorgeous, immodest,
Everyone of us has his own "me".

Everyone of us has his own "me",
It always knows everything better itself,
It rarely notices it's own mistakes,
Finding other's mistakes here and there.

(And let nobody help it,
It'll finish in a couple more days.)

Everyone of us has his own "me",
We are together with this "me" for a long time,
And if someone asks: "Who is the author of the song?"
It'll always reply: "It's me!"

Horrible, gigantic,
Gorgeous, immodest,
Everyone of us has his own "me".

Somewhere There

I think, that we have probably met,
Went somewhere in November morning,
We were laughing, becoming different and quarreling somewhat for,
It's seems like me and you were acquainted.

We were reading poems, buying albums
And making the brightest photographs.
When did it all happen? I can't recall...
Maybe it was somebody else, but us?

Somewhere there...

But what about the sunny beach and hot rocks?
And the nights without sleep, the nervous lines
About something recent, something huge...
How strange, I remember that distinctly, clearly.

We loved to stay in bed for hours,
Went to the cinemas, opened the secrets,
Looked into each other's eyes,
Indeed, we have met before sometime and somewhere...

Somewhere there...

How can I suppose, that this is all true,
To try to forget, to leave and not to touch?
And maybe it's worth going back now,
To start it all over and try once again?

Without changing the words and the melody,
To sing all the songs on another chords...
Stop! Let's stay here on time,
Seems like it's better to leave everything as it is.

Somewhere there...

Birds On White

She became totally entangled,
And her hands are freezing.
Hot tea and cigarettes smoke,
Night sounds fly into the opened window,
The street lamp is tired and the light is dim.

You've said once that you didn't like the Autumn,
But it's drizzling and slush out there,
It gets dark too early and the cat is asking for something,
And everything is not how it should be,
And the thoughts are not about what they should be.

Don't you disturb yourself too much,
The city will set all the points,
With the net of dark street-lines,
With the branches of the river it will hug you.
It will take all the leaves off the black sticks,
And the yellow dog of the November moon
Will drink all the puddles little by little.

Everything is said, everything is lived through, everything is hackneyed,
Everything is lofty, everything is cooled down and gone.
In your short dream it will stay forgotten,
And will convolve in a chest into a warm tingle.
This Saturday has interweaved a thin plaid
From the fiber of hope just before the darkness came.
And we got out of our minds, and now it's just like before again.
I know, you love the books and the flowers.

Don't you disturb yourself too much,
The city will set all the points,
With the net of dark street-lines,
With the branches of the river it will hug you.
It will take all the leaves off the black sticks,
And the yellow dog of the November moon
Will drink all the puddles notelessly.

The Sky

The morning starts lately,
The sleep is interrupted by an important phone call:
"Hey, wake up quicker, sleeping so much is not serious!"
I'd sleep some more if I could.

The plastic teapot has fused on a gas stove,
The keys got lost somewhere,
The elevator was called by someone else just a second before accidentally,
The phone doesn't react and keeps silent.

But there is nothing,
there is nothing,
there is nothing more beautiful than sky.

The dirty puddle opens the swimming season with a splash,
The train ticket is empty when it's needed so much,
The cape is stuck between the doors.
Lights off and the computer is broken,
The postal package was not delivered.
Sometimes everthing is not right somehow,
It's just that kind of a day today.

But there is nothing,
there is nothing,
there is nothing more beautiful than sky.


Author: Ilya Orlov

 
 
 
 
Author: Ilya Orlov. Thanks and credits
Design: Alexandra "Red_Crow"
St. Petersburg — Vilnius, 2008