Вадим Демчог - Гроза. Доктрина 77. автор Иван Охлобыстин - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

If you have never seen our thunderstorm, you will never understand us, the ability of our crazy souls to fall to the very bottom of the abyss, where all the laws of the universe lose their original meaning. And a rapid rise to the transcendental heights, where from the ruby ​​tails of burning comets, someone incomprehensibly great weaves the fabric of reality.

At first, the sun is gentle, like a baby's kiss. From time to time, the sunlight begins to be covered by loose white clouds. Then there are more of them, they gather in companies, until another gust of wind finally forms them into huge piebald massifs. And they seem to lure from behind the horizon a thunderstorm front, shimmering along the torn edges with steel.

Soon the shimmering steel is covered by slanting curtains of torrential rains. As it approaches, the thunderstorm begins to suck in sounds. The first to disappear are all the sounds of human presence: the noise of car engines on the road, the hum of invisible airbuses pushing through the clouds to the airports. After them, the forest falls silent and the field freezes.

Above your head, a terrible, ash-yellow whirlpool silently seethes, gradually curling into a spiral around an as yet invisible center. A bird nearby will scream in fear, a rusty weather vane will squeak shrilly with its door hinge, as if opening the door for rare but huge drops of warm rain. And the rain will bring with it the smell of freshly split stone.

And then there will be an unbearably long pause. The feeling of time appears only when you are waiting for something. Something most important, capable of changing your whole life once and for all. And at the moment, this is the main thing, which appeared for a moment, in the center of the chaos reigning above, a round breakthrough through which you can see the black bottomless space and infinitely distant stars pulsating in different colors. The only thing you really want at that moment is to rip your chest open with your hands, tear out your still-agonizing heart and, with a wild, ecstatic cry, stretch it out to meet the first lightning strike.

You don’t think about death, you don’t know the fear of doubt. You furiously want to become involved in the greatness that surrounds you, to become part of this indescribable force that creates and destroys worlds. The force that erases the line between the obvious and the imaginary. The force that manifests itself in the sweet taste of birch sap and the shimmer of sapphire, created from a drop of fatty, venous blood. For a split second, for the time it falls to the cool marble of the temple steps. The force that combines the responsibility of personal choice with the impulsive impulse of an enraged crowd. To become this force yourself, sacrificing your uniqueness, for the glory of its madness.

Everything else is so unimportant. So insignificant. So offensively logical for a true understanding of yourself. No... If you have never seen our thunderstorm, you will never look into our souls. After all, you want it so much... But think: are you really ready for this?

Deus vult!

© I. Okhlobystin.