Текст песни Илья Сойер - Русская Смерть

My Dream - Smells Like Teen Spirit
On church bells at minus thirty
But in gray and blue jeans with dust
Teenagers drink with adults.

You can't smile in Siberia
The sunsets are too cold,
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are here
The hungry stand with outstretched hand.

Foreign directors of fashion films
Are evaporated by substances of varying severity,
And we look out the window and catch the rhythms
Frozen soil and Russian holiness.

Here on every balcony of the Siberian Khrushchev
Messenger from God Archangel Gabriel
Follows how we choose, washed down with vodka,
A place for their graves.

Russian Parnas is not the top
For the harmonies of the muses of heaven.
Russian Parnas is a mother,
Frosts, forests and entrances.

Russia is a big black hole.
Eighty thousand disappears every year
There is neither good nor evil,
The homeland sucks in all the Napoleons and Fritzes.

Russia is the first circle of hell
This is where the dead are born and exist.
This is the real cold truth
The resonances of glasses and bell towers are loud.

Russia is a monastery in weeds,
These are rivers, swamps and pure truths.
Russia is death in a sarafan.
She has already shot at those born.

My mother, Russia!
I carry your cross with care.
And if they offer to fly away on wings,
Not. I will not leave my native place.