эхопрокуренныхсараев - подарок для гроба - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

The soul does not fly away, the soul rots. Sedative cloudiness, phenobarbital cools down in the boyan. the smell of alcohol rapes the nostrils, the red star of terror illuminates this depressing picture. Hoarse voices in my head demand death, whisper curses of the Third Reich. The way out of hopelessness is suicide, the house of pain is peace. The sky sowed crosses on the earth. In the hospitals, the old scum was enveloped in pill dust. There is rot in the coffins, in underground laboratories, miscarriages preserved in alcohol, children of a radioactive habitat. Minute death and the old man’s body did not know suffering. Without the inevitable dependence on drugs, the den is a squared paired circle. your sick body is decorated with parchments, your sick body is a gift for the coffin.