Seeing off the old day past,
Barely touching the pillows with soft head,
Indulging in dreams, they gladly listen,
With the intermission, you leave the stage of life,
And in the morning under the bird's vociferous sound
Backstage raises the memory again with his hands,
Opening the scenery, experience and story on stage:
Mistakes, happiness, take offs, skills, fall.
Memory has a special role in the theater:
Enter script, keeping the story line,
In a slightly opened eye from the reflection of dawn,
Restarting the entire repertoire of the flight game,
To move forward like a jet,
And don't run, like a mouse, in the wheel in place.
So can remember the lives of past songs
As useful as remembering a day or a year?
The mind is constantly busy with something interesting,
And if you calm his chatter at your leisure,
Like a noisy crowd, that storms the entrance,
Then the memory will turn out to be not so short hands
How minds sometimes think, that echo loudly,
That we play the scene of life only once,
They seem to play the ancient order
A stretch of time from our birth
And until the last hour strikes.
And if they don't like the script,
Then lamentations rush to the addressee of fate.
Line segment, he is a cut, that there is no big picture,
The order is covered with life all natural.
And if you go from behind the scenes to the theatrical limits,
That which will show the hands of the creation of endless memory?
That a collision with people cannot be accidental,
That all events are true, what happens to us,
And life – theater, that we previously put together ourselves.
We are connected with people by invisible strong knots.,
Shuffling cards from life to life, changing roles,
Touching each other with love, then with prickly thorns.
Knots we knit tightly emotional outburst,
That in past incarnations a pitchfork rope between us.
And that's why, stepped on stage, barely colliding sleeves,
Or thrown aside, or the flames will flow through the veins.