замкнутость 8 - Вова сказал - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

isolation 8 - Vova said

And in my sleep the dreams will still be the same, where there is the serenity of the mountain and the tenderness of the quarrel. And I, like an overdose before leaving, will pray to God in the entrance, or maybe I will walk in the footsteps of the Buddha or stick needles with knitting needles into voodoo dolls. While you dream of my life, where I still suffer from nonsense, erasing all faces from my memory, while the chariot of fate beckons me somewhere to the edges, where the philosophy of the toilet is about what could have been and about what was in vain .swimming back and forth with the river flows of the Styx. How bad it is to choke in the morning, while yesterday’s turmoil forbids you to think soberly - is there a pulse or has the pulse died? Do I exist or do we add another group in the head? And in a dream the dream is still the same, where I am with bones in I am burning with your hands, Lord God. A piece of fake happiness clings to fishing gear. Gotcha. Waking up in a cold sweat, crumbling to the rhythm of dominoes from any push in the back, broken elbows on bumps, forced to become stronger, strong, on wine-vodka soil, nothing to be proud of in essence, like shards of broken dishes in the trash, as if at the last trial, where The wolf people lined up in a row like a caricature of hell with laughter and blood on their lips frozen in the effect of surprise. And among the breathing crowds of the same. On the edge of the blade roof. There are stars in the sky, I was or will be, I don’t remember, higher. Came out. The flash of lanterns imitates life, following the sun at night. No one sleeps here, here there is snot, drizzle and an alarming cold running through the body with a twenty-one-year run. And these reflections of spots in the sky are creating horoscopes - what will they come up with for today? In life everything is the same, the same pieces of paper crumpled by the text, the same words incomprehensible to everyone, a brief postscript about what is important in the topic. You betrayed happiness in the back streets of the quagmire, talking about love in the rhythm of rubber. You refused to be faithful to the goal, but in words almost everyone is omnipotent .in your locking, as if on the porch: “Give attention, aunties, uncles.” You can’t warm yourself in the arms of strangers, it’s easy to deceive others, but you can’t deceive your heart. Do you still believe in yourself? And stammer in doubt, pouring variations of the truth into the glass of discussions of your truth?. “I’m happy for you,” do you remember when you said it sincerely? In the eternal search for meaning, the sparkles in the eyes have dimmed. Looking more often into space through walls, through doors. There is nothing more to believe in, and it would seem there is no soul, but as if weak, and the lanterns still imitate life, together with the moon. Sit at home , I will remain myself with you