It needs a spark to squeeze out the extract
|
From these lines, where the ecstasy of doubt and fear
|
This is my temple, where I am Akhetaten and Herostratus
|
And the head cracks like birch bark under the onslaught of a fire
|
Hey yo when our last redoubt falls
|
I will say hello to all those who follow the trail
|
Everyone who wanted to hurt me and was so stupid
|
That tried to hurt the laughing emptiness
|
To hell with the year, I carry them around like a piece of jewelry
|
Having riddled notebooks with a large-caliber rhyme
|
To go through these thorns without unnecessary torment
|
Think I had to get the spikes myself
|
Professional deformation - what to do?
|
Winter is like a velvet season for inner demons
|
I'll put on a warmer jacket again at the studio
|
Psychoanalysis will fit into a dozen demos
|
In the gray snows of Asiatic Russia
|
We spend energy not for badges, orders and ksivs
|
Like a flag without faith - just a rag on a flagpole
|
So my words are nothing without those who say "thank you" for them
|
This is how the same synthesis is born
|
And we find in this the very tsimes
|
And we go out to the light through blizzards
|
The gunpowder of the lines ignites here, despite the dampness
|
Hey friend! |
Don't be around, it's not summer in the yard
|
You see the whiteness of the fields, as the sunset reddens again
|
And burns in the ice of the alley
|
How many winters have passed here without a return
|
How many years?
|
The same books on the table
|
Rhymes on a juicy beat loop
|
We share MIC in a circle of colleagues, there is still the same fuss around
|
So, I didn’t get sick, so it will be like this
|
Until the line is passed, the line is passed
|
Illumination is singular, which is ironic - not forever
|
As chaotic as SHARON in Project Mutilation
|
Where are the forerunners, those who inspired us on this path?
|
Shackled by work, life, and mortgage bondage
|
Winter - a bride in a wedding dress
|
She will hug her shoulders, there is nothing to defend against her
|
Window frost illuminated by lights
|
I meet this evening the same way
|
Waking up somewhere at the end
|
Steward in pocket, sleeping bag underfoot
|
Box quadrangles, frost head
|
I saw it a hundred times, seven years ago
|
Taking it off in front of his own eyes, he called the painting "Rospechaly"
|
And here we all go out like headlights
|
On a cold morning, leaving lines-artifacts
|
What are we capable of after the fact, if luck is enough?
|
Find comfort by doing what someone considers ART
|
And there how the card will fall
|
Put an end to the final gesture
|
Defining the limit of perfection
|
Without letting down all those
|
Who once preceded us there
|
This is our trip
|
Hey friend! |
Don't be around, it's not summer in the yard
|
You see the whiteness of the fields, as the sunset reddens again
|
And burns in the ice of the alley
|
How many winters have passed here without a return
|
How many years?
|
The same books on the table
|
Rhymes on a juicy beat loop
|
We share MIC in a circle of colleagues, there is still the same fuss around
|
So, I didn’t get sick, so it will be like this
|
Until the line is passed, the line is passed |