Regina Spektor- Après Moi (Studio Version)
APRÈS MOI LYRICS
[Verse 1]
I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
[Chorus]
Be afraid of the lame, they'll inherit your legs
Be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls
Be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood
Après moi, le deluge
After me comes the flood
I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
[Chorus]
[Verse 3]
Fevrale dostat chernil I plakat
Pisat O Fevrale navsnryd
Poka grohochushaya slyakot
Vesnoyu charnoyu gorit
[Chorus]
[Verse 4]
I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, It's not my choice
[Outro]
I, I must go on stan-stan-ding-dong
You can't, can't break that, that
Which isn't, isn't yours, yours
I'm not, not my own, own
It's not, not my choice, choice
I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
[Chorus]
Be afraid of the lame, they'll inherit your legs
Be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls
Be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood
Après moi, le deluge
After me comes the flood
I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
[Chorus]
[Verse 3]
Fevrale dostat chernil I plakat
Pisat O Fevrale navsnryd
Poka grohochushaya slyakot
Vesnoyu charnoyu gorit
[Chorus]
[Verse 4]
I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, It's not my choice
[Outro]
I, I must go on stan-stan-ding-dong
You can't, can't break that, that
Which isn't, isn't yours, yours
I'm not, not my own, own
It's not, not my choice, choice
http://genius.com/Regina-spektor-apres-moi-lyrics
She sings first part of this poem by Boris Pasternak
Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать!
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.
Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен,
Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес,
Перенестись туда, где ливень
Еще шумней чернил и слез.
Где, как обугленные груши,
С деревьев тысячи грачей
Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат
Сухую грусть на дно очей.
Под ней проталины чернеют,
И ветер криками изрыт,
И чем случайней, тем вернее
Слагаются стихи навзрыд.
here's the translation of all poem (not by me):
February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
http://www.allthelyrics.com/forum/showthread.php?t=75410
She sings first part of this poem by Boris Pasternak
Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать!
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.
Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен,
Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес,
Перенестись туда, где ливень
Еще шумней чернил и слез.
Где, как обугленные груши,
С деревьев тысячи грачей
Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат
Сухую грусть на дно очей.
Под ней проталины чернеют,
И ветер криками изрыт,
И чем случайней, тем вернее
Слагаются стихи навзрыд.
here's the translation of all poem (not by me):
February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
http://www.allthelyrics.com/forum/showthread.php?t=75410
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