Tom Russell - East Of Woodstock, West Of Viet Nam

Текст

I slept through the Nineteen Sixties, I heard Dory Previn say

But me I caught me the great white bird, to the shores of Africay

Where I lost my adolescent heart, to the sound of a talking drum

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam

And on the roads outside Oshogbo, Lord I fell down on my knees

There were female spirits in old mud huts, iron bells ringing up in the trees

And an eighty-year-old white priest, she made juju all night long

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam

Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy, yeah were coming through the rye

In the cinema I saw the man on the moon, I laughed so hard I cried

It was somewhere in those rainy seasons, that I learned to carve my song

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam

Oh Africa, Mother Africa, you lay heavy on my breast

You old cradle of civilization, heart of darkness blood and death

Though we had to play you running scared, when the crocodile ate the sun

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam

Well I think its going to rain tonight, I can smell it coming off the sea

As I sit here reading old Graham Greene I taste Africa on every page

Then I close my eyes and see those red clay roads, and its sundown and boys Im gone

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam

Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy, yeah were coming through the rye

It was a moveable feast of war and memory, a dark old lullaby

It was the smoke of a thousand camp fires, it was the wrong end of a gun,

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam.

Yeah, East of Woodstock, West of Vietnam

Перевод

Я проспал шестидесятые, я слышал слова Дори Превин

Но меня я поймал, большую белую птицу, к берегам Африки

Где я потерял свое юношеское сердце под звуки говорящего барабана

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу от Вьетнама

И на дорогах за пределами Ошогбо, Господь, я упал на колени

В старых глинобитных хижинах обитали женские духи, в воздухе звенели железные колокола. деревья

И восьмидесятилетний белый священник, она готовила джуджу всю ночь напролет

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу от Вьетнама

Поднимите выше балки крыши, мальчик-плотник, да, они проходили через рожь

В кинотеатре я увидел человека на луне, я так смеялся, что плакал

Где-то в те дождливые сезоны я научился вырезать свою песню

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу Вьетнама

О, Африка, Мать-Африка, ты тяжело легла на мою грудь

Ты старая колыбель цивилизации, сердце тьмы, крови и смерти

Хотя нам приходилось играть, как ты бежишь в страхе, когда крокодил съел солнце

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу от Вьетнама

Ну, я думаю, сегодня вечером будет дождь, я чувствую его запах, доносящийся с моря

Когда я сижу здесь и читаю старого Грэма Грина, я ощущаю вкус Африки на каждой странице

Затем я закрываю глаза и вижу эти красные глинистые дороги, закат и ребят, которых я ухожу

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу от Вьетнама

Поднимите высоко балки крыши мальчик-плотник, да, мы шли через рожь

Это был волнующий праздник войны и памяти, темная старая колыбельная

Это был дым тысячи лагерных костров, это был не тот конец ружья,

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу от Вьетнама.

Да, к востоку от Вудстока, к западу от Вьетнама

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Tom Russell - East Of Woodstock, West Of Viet Nam

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