Вадим Демчог - Гроза - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

If you have never seen our thunderstorms, you will never understand us, the abilities of our insane souls to fall on the very bottom of the abyss, where all the laws of the universe lose their original meaning. And the rapid takeoff in the beggar heights, where from the ruby ​​tails of the combustible comets, someone incomprehensibly the great gossip of the canvas of reality.

At first, it takes up a gentle as a kiss of a baby, the sun. From time to time, sunlight begins to cover loose white clouds. Then they are getting bigger, they are knocked down in the company, while the next gust of the wind finally does not form them in the huge panion of arrays. And they seem to be lured due to the horizon casting the storming front at ragged edges.

Soon the flickering steel cover the sore curtains of pouring rains. As you approach, the thunderstorm begins to suck the sounds.

All the sounds of the presence of a person are the first to disappear: the noises of car engines on the road, the hum of invisible aerobus, prejudgeing through the clouds to the airports. Following them silent the forest and freezes the field.

A terrible, ash and yellow whirlpool, gradually turning the spiral, around another invisible center, is silently. The bird scares around nearby, piercingly creaks the door loop rusty vogen, as if opening the door for rare, but huge droplets of warm rain. And the rain will bring with me the smell of freshly crawled stone.

And then it will come unbearable long pause. The feeling of time appears only when you wait for something. Something the most important thing that can change the whole life once and for all. And at the moment it is the main thing that has emerged for a moment, in the center of reigning at the top of the chaos, a rounded breakthrough, through which the black bottomless space is visible and is infinitely distant, pulsating with different colors of the stars.

The only thing you want to do so at this moment is to break your chest with your hands, snatch another agonizing heart and with a wild, enthusiastic screaming to continue it to meet the first blow of the zipper.

You do not think about death, you may not want any fear of doubt. You violently want to become a rusticity of you, to become part of this indescribable strength, creating and destroying worlds. Forces, erasing the line between the obvious and imaginary. Forces that manifests themselves in the sweet skil of birch juice and the flickering of sapphire created from a drop of oily, venous blood. For a split second, at the time of its fall to the cool marble of the temple steps. Forces combining the responsibility of personal choice with a pulmonary impulse of an angry crowd. Itself becomes this power, sacrificing with its uniqueness, throwing it into the fire of madness.

Everything else is not important. So not significantly. So insultingly logical for a true understanding of itself. No ... if you have never seen our thunderstorm, you will never look into our souls. After all, you want this so much ... But you think: do you really prepare for this?

DEUS VULT!

© I. Okhlobystin.