Текст песни ГРОТ - Уголёк

Bylina is forged, it is poured into forms of iron,
Harvest Song inland mines,
Having dived with head, cutting steel rods,
Return with prey exhausted by the author.
He's kind of quiet in a corner, but turned inside boulders,
To wall off the wall during the day or in the middle of the night,
You have not seen the world from which he had just arrived,
Putting all the points and finished a new song.
Climbing on the letters he piled words on paper,
And growling throat, like a rushing roar composition,
Lone travelers were in his little camp,
To a small fire, the road winds through the charter.
They fell asleep by the fire, watching the flames dance only,
In the morning, they will move in a way that is dangerous and far.
Taking with him a set of sounds, waves and vibrations,
And ears on repeat fire from a digital crayon.