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Мой плейлист № 1

YAMAKASI

Minor

Рапапам

Рапапам (feat. Miyagi & Эндшпиль)

Зависал

Ау

Jon Lajoie - Everyday Normal Guy

Frostbite

Low fire, long breath.
Athanor hums in the chest.
Lampblack lungs, winter tongue,
watch the ash confess.

Solvet, softly,
Coagula blaze, but a patient kiln.
Soot to soap, guilt to lye,
let the cleansing in.

Soot marks the places my silence slept,
coal script under ribs where the frost was kept.
Old heat folded in iron skin,
a forge remembers where it’s been.
Salt is witness, smoke is vow,
mercury moves like a now within now.
I don’t beg the dark to go, I bid it melt,
stir the slag of what I felt.
Fuligo, fulcrum; pressure, poise,
quiet labor, fewer noise.
Not thunder, not spectacle, just breath and heat,
iron snow falling on the street.
Burn what you bore; smelt it to light,
fold and refold till temper is right.
Quench the blade in the truth you own:
if it cuts, it’s grown.

Through the sootfold I go, slow,
hands black, but the pulse aglow.
Little by little the soul will know:
even the dark can snow.

Sot and snow, let the heart lay low,
eira on the coal till the embers glow.
Sot and snow, slow bright, slow true,
from gloom to goleuni, I’m coming through.

I sift old names like cinders in a pan,
keep what warms, let go what never ran.
The bright melt hums where the chill once fed,
a whisper rising through what’s dead.
Alembic patience, drip by drip,
habit unthreads, old skin slips.
I unlearn the metal that loves my rust,
oil the hinge of a stubborn trust.
The sootfold taught me to hold the weight,
the dawngrain whispers: wait, just wait.
Heartfire flickers like straw in sun,
you don’t rush what must be done.
Not a sainted shine, not a spotless hymn,
just clean enough to begin again.

Lampblack to ink, ink to oath,
oath to breath, breath to growth.

Snow on the forge, and the hiss says stay,
every flake is a way to pray.
Not for a miracle, only a field,
where ash turns soil and the soil can yield.

Sot and snow, let the heart lay low,
eira on the coal till the embers glow.
Sot and snow, slow bright, slow true,
from gloom to goleuni, I’m coming through.

No crown, no stone, just knuckles and tone,
a steady metronome of bone on bone.
Burn what you bore, smelt it to light,
carry the small flame into night.
When the breath shows white and the road is thin,
open the door and walk back in.

Soot to soap.
Snow to hope.
Hand to heart.
Start.

Джип

Нурминский

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