Текст песни м i фо-га - 86 . мрамор

✲ ✲ ✲
You paint the sun in icy marble.
You know thousands of black medicines.
But I am the grass and I have your frame
Close as anthems and brass of states
ψ
Everything under the walls you call a face.
That which in itself you put in your mouth.
But I am a grass from a great country,
And your letter to me is childish power
ψ
Stand at the helm where the sound of the oars is not heard.
Stand at the helm, where is the white compass without arrows.
After all, you are grass, but you grew up under a roof -
The one that will not hide what has not sung
1
You paint, you know - but I'm cramped here
Sun - (thousands) - hymns and brass ...
The ice of your frames on a hump single,
Marble, crosses, fucking gingerbread and a whip
2
You called, you laid, the walls were not themselves.
The face is only a mask - but the syllable does not fall.
(P) the souls are lured by images ...
By the same person who has reached - the card is not in suit
3
Where is the knock, where is the arrow ... can you hear the stone?
Touch the bird with an eye - and the oars will not lie down.
Your age is grass, but you whisper "amen"
To the one who found the sword in himself

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♬ 16-18 V`95 (tishenof) ✍ 30-31 XII`95
® 02 V - 2007 peter ☂ foundry pr. 40
p`10 mart-11 (tischenof) l ll lll ll l ll lll ll l ll
absurd'folk-lullaby (stories of the milky here
ranks: mantras ιllιlı. psychedelia)