Dear Bulat Shalvych, and also Vladimir Semenych! How are you doing and doing well in these bright days? Nothing, little by little, as they say - God help. God help you, my friends! God help you, my friends, God help you!
We play the guitar, on stage, on a typewriter - It seems to be apart, but on the other hand, it seems to be in unison. We are all trying, trying, catching by ear in the old fashioned way the Verb of the times, the ringing of metal. God help you, my friends, God help you!
But I’m still sorry (sorry, Bulat, for the quote), That we won’t meet at the crossroads of Moscow. Five minutes by taxi, two kopecks from the machine, - But - alas. I'm terribly sorry. I don't know about you.
We could sit and drink, but we could sing! But it didn’t work out, it won’t work out, because according to our clock we were too late, we have to drive to the limit. That's why it won't work. I'm sorry. I don't know about you.
That’s why I’m in a hurry, and that’s why all the words and melody are, That I’m in a hurry to express my tender love to you - I love you, Bulat! I love you, Volodya! God help you, my friends! God help you, my friends, God help you! God help you, my friends, God help you!
This, of course, is not an answer and looks little like a greeting. Just a parting word, a blessing(?)
Margot, it seems to me that the chest just opens
