Sing to me more.
Gently
the stereo player is rolling the tape in reverse.
Darkness indoors,
crackles and whistles
driving me mad.
End of the day;
let me not be pedantic to digits.
Petals of poppy scattered aspread.
Sing to me more.
Not yet
exactly the right turn to play the card held
up the sleeve. Purr of the kettle,
drop from the faucet
slowly - slowly - slowly
completing a meld.
Jittering voice
Bang of the door - wind is spanning! -
clutching the curtains,
constricting the pupils
to universe size.
Facing the rim of these dreary gloomy millennia,
neck deep in the water,
survivors are waiting on the drift ice.
So sing to me more!
What can I change if my shadow
leads me and I'm in the rear,
forever wearing a court
notice that, counting down to one,
anyone having a gun in one's home
is sentenced to being Kurt Cobain's peer,
anyone reading between the lines is
sentenced to obtaining a gun?
Sing to me more.
I'm simply confident that
on the last day,
when everyone takes you for hit by a lightning,
a passer-by at the rail stop will call you
and wrap in a shawl from the hoar.
The buildings will shake before the coming car,
and when the heavy doors are sliding,
sing to me more.
Original: splean.ru/music/album/6/ (track 12)