МИФ - Каменный век русской поэзии - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Stone Age of Russian Poetry

There is a secret code,

But no one can remember him

You have to tear your breed

to join the prohibited society of the black cipher from the flow of running water,

notes, numbers and points, but if you notice, your choice,

Choose between an oak and a cat, we live like fish - a jamb,

in constant state of coma,

Friends confuse us with insects,

After all, we will rhyme in our own hive,

While the wolf hordes rocked their teeth on the kakuli flocks,

We were looking for Styl in honeycombs, and for the hundredth time they disappeared,

And we stayed, and created a system of signs from the remains of four elements, you can own this knowledge, but who said that at the right time, and meanwhile, it is necessary to apply it, amin, the Min dynasty, you gave us writing, now You can leave, do not be sad, you will go to firewood, I heard the porcelain burns well, the caravan sticks out on the silk path, the sugar head is silent, the bricks should be shared in half in order to confuse the failure from the ram - this is please, but only it is too early to download the rights, from zemanism - To shamanism, recitative instead of reading, this style is not always authentic, but closer to atylla than to Byzantium, to be a textbook there is a chance, yes, and reach Khantymanthic, my ideal MS is the rain, or a mixture of a muejin with gasoline, a mixture Bolsin's leaves, sheets of the stone book are saturated with marvelous force, there is no place for a beautiful curb, but gross cuneiform symbols, laughter of crazy is an incentive for simulating the creative process, as well as the taste of incest and the spirit of a reclining place

My tongue, accept condolences, you are sick with all diseases,

but what to climb the blade with a run, you can be useful here

Silver disappeared into the abyss, gold was pulled into crosses

And this is what I dreamed about - the stone age of Russian poetry

There is an underground passage, but few people willingly believe him, only to those, to the right breed in the soil, the gates of the prefabricated world from shapeless clay, words, dreams and corns can open, everything is allowed here - to create patterns from flocks and jacks, to guess on soy. braid the voice and hayfields and haymaking stripes, completely forget, where you are, in the tangled forces of the house, and sit comfortably, put a pillow under your head, even though life has disappeared, still you don’t have to go to the sleepers, but you have to live, from a fake of feces of sand The sands of the tendons were folded like a puzzle, stuffed, sewn up and drawing along the pattern, let them down on the sea, but they forgot to think, not knowing that the contents were transferred and became the very style, which was given the name of three knots on each eyeless, each eyelash, It’s not enough that you will dream, but still you need to wake up, touch the hand of stone, moss and fuel oil, you hear sounds, these ruins call druids, the plains call Beduinov, the candle period has come a carved tube of enemies of enemies, a telephone booth is busy - this mosaic is fragile, like a fragile, like a statue from a dried fruit, dump both steel, and ruts, words and bark to each other from the rearrangement of places of terms, the amount does not change

native language, accept condolences, you are sick with all diseases,

but what to climb the blade with a run, you can be useful here

Silver disappeared into the abyss, gold was pulled into crosses

And this is what I dreamed about - the stone age of Russian poetry