FRESH ART - Грех - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

On the west bank of the Heavenly Ocean, the tired sun quietly goes out.

Heavy lilac twilight envelop dusty cities.

The air becomes thick and seems to stick to the elastic skin of the color of the moccona. Slowly, leisurely, like a resin on the trunk, lust flows into the weary bodies.

Hot...

And stuffy, like a sleepy evening in front of the rain.

Dark and damp.

Fire, like a blade, will stick his eyes.

No fire!

A conductor in the night is your desire.

What is curled up in the bottom of the abdomen and does not give you rest.

And the dream drives, until recently expected. Close all the doors, undress and lie on the cold floor.

Thirst torments dry lips.

Repeat your name, and the crack on the lower lip will give pain to the bare nerves. So not for long.

And so sweet!

Hardly inhale the aroma of hot body. The veins curled up and whining and waiting, and wait for movements to break!

Rejoice your head so that the artery is defiantly pulsing.

Cleaned blood crawls in the blue rivers of veins.

Let millions of times, shimmering with the mother of pearl, acts cold sweat. Do not rush!

The fall into the dark abyss is endless. Fear and lust inspire you.

Fall, closing your eyes and forgetting about the past! Black wings are no less wings than white.

A stifled scream is saddened by a throat with a desire.

The body, like a tense bowstring of antique onions.

Foggy images are attracted and a thorny whisper is scraping around the skin, and they torment consciousness, and they call, and they want you.

Quietly, like a night flows into the gap, like galaxies hurry towards each other, as a tired god drops his hands and falls asleep under the noise of meteorite rain, lust will enter you.

You feel the severity of him.

You are a heated flesh, unknown, not knowing peace.

Deliverance...

Moan...

A frantic rhythm pulsates in your head, you are all a continuation of this rhythm.

Do not stop, you yourself will not be able to! Whisper...

Whisper...

The whisper envelops you from all sides.

The body beats in an unknown dance.

It reflects the voice of the Tumbags.

Louder and louder!

Mercury grain between the shoulder blades glides cold when moving.

And, like a clash of worlds in infinite space, get rid of you.

From you.

Explosion!

The exhausted body, which spread on the floor, shudders into the beat of the first cry of the mules, meeting the newborn sun.

And only dry lips are inaudibly intertwined into a spell, like a rustling of a ethereal wind: "Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachthani ..."

The answer to the tart bitterness on the lips:

"Sin".