Decided to upload this song again, even though it is just the voice recorder quality.

Сожаление (черновик)

Come, little sheep, come to the hills,
Come to the hills, follow the crows,
So you shall know how it really feels,
How you can melt all the snow.

Bury the old memories that hurt,
Bury the cold pieces of past,
Bury them right here in the dirt,
This raw ground that you can trust.

“Come, lovely sheep, sing me a song,
Beating the ground with your pretty hoof,
Stay by my side, I am the oak,
Here you can hide, near my roots.”

Little sheep, beautiful cloud, 
Melt the snow, see the water flows,
Keep it in mind, and you shall find
Where the time actually goes

Little sheep, beautiful cloud, 
I know you from my dreams.
Come to the hills, it’s all about
To melt the snow and set you free.

Little sheep

Weather station.
The shimmering light.
Darkness.
The endless steppe.
In Karaganda
It is cloudy at times.
Night. Visions.
Falling stars.
I'm going.
Not into the light
But from the light.
Karlag.
One step, one more step.
Darkness.
The wind is blowing
Behind the wall.
Radio waves.
Dried feather grass
Calls straight to the steppe,
Further and further.
Wolves howl.
I keep my post
Uninterrupted,
Checking the devices.
Fire from within.
And light.
Weather station.
The endless steppe.

Weather station

The silence is in our city.
Enthusiasm for the new truth
Can make our city live.
If a changeable fate brings you
To our lovely city,
Where nothing happens,
Then you,
Walking down the quiet streets
To the very bottom of the human being,
Looking at the yellow-gray fine dust,
To the best of the human strength,
You will see
The Silence,
Tiring and long.
The struggle lasted full-length.
What kind of fate is there?
What kind of grain is there.

Seed

Field

Isabella

Sonnet 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead
By William Shakespeare
lyrics
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

Sonnet 71

Dirty Blue (Wovenhand сover)

An experiment. The samples, recorded electronic instruments and the voice of Sylvia Plath. Connoisseurs of American confessional poetry and downtempo trip-hop will love it.

Kataeva

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