A song is a place, where the sorrow is looking for keys
from the pockets of long, dusty black jacket
A song is a place, where buried in the flowerbed
a bundle of golden hair of a child can be found
A song is a journey into a new light, where the wind is playing
with the leaves of an aspen that have fallen a long time ago
A song is an asphyxiated cry on the road of happiness
which claims that everything isn't lost
Forgive us
our sins
Give us
our daily ability to grieve*
because we don't know the radius of our mistakes
A song is all these words between us
Untraveled long road, unrisen day
A song, a trap of an instant satisfaction
The greatest work of a devil - that he doesn't exist
and the ocean is boiling, low horizon
like a curtain which in vain longs for being torn apart
when a song is traveling, carrying all the lies
and knows I can't see them, for a while they warm
Only futility even those holy numbers scribbled on the skin
Only futility every empty time, embittered