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Капюшон Ноу Мо -Татуировка.mp3

Копюшон-Гвозди

Чёрная Смородина [chernaya smorodina]: Blackcurrant
Родина [Rodina]: motherland

(how miserable, how miserable...)

How miserable life is - if only you knew
At the train station - I carry letters to God
Carry letters of the wounded - they beg for heaven
Passing buildings - whole country of robots

I am the conductor for two wires, on me sleepware, scarf
Prophet looks within, don't interfere with murder
Frostbitten legs, I skullfucked this slum
Hands, bag, and glue - know this is their morning

I won't return. Give them an answer and a purpose
This are bodily absesses, to walk - chained
I read the letters. I won't deliver them.
I don't feel sorry for people, their messages are miserable.

On every page a plea, I'd rather tear them apart.
Darkness in windows, tears fall from the sky.
I tear off my skin, I hate you all
I strain my ligaments and lose my voice
---
[x2]
Blackcurrant. Letters about the motherland
I call to those who sit in the corners
Blackcurrant. This text is for those
Of burnt lands, who saw the war.
---
I have nothing to lose, I return to the tracks
I wrote a letter too, I will return again
You're faultless, life, but I'm fucked up and weak
Thus thought the man on the pedestal

Record this fear to video, I want to love it
I want to deaden and rot, stay useless, decay
One hundred rows of corpses, crow, scroll, morning.
Berberis and tears, pine trees hide their needles

At the bend river stretches, 
Under the shroud hide the roads
To this shroud children flee
We don't see them from weeping windows

I cut out letters, cover hands in glue
Thin remnants of hope remain in me
Paper reminds of skin. Oh god, please no..
Forgive me for these lies

One word to a hundred messages
Slashed hands, I poured blood on my letter
Wiping my hands, it is time. I know.
While they sleep on tracks, I evade the structure.

I open the window, I see the starry sky
Faith will help me become indifferent
I throw the letters. I - a shadow of branches
I won't deliver the answers. The letters fly to the moon.
---
[x2]
Blackcurrant. Letters about the motherland
I call to those who sit in the corners
Blackcurrant. This text is for those
Of burnt lands, who saw the war.
---

08. Закричу без слов

Антон Карпов

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