Текст песни ХеРуВим - Стихийное бедствие

she just started to break out of the cocoon yesterday.
in search of what you are looking for,
uncertain at first, with a bit of apprehension.
thinking, maybe, after all, in that sky gigantic
nothing interesting? then maybe in vain
to tear the shackles that swaddled me for metamorphosis?
more comfortable in dark solitude, and, you know, somehow more familiar ..
here no one will ever ask these stupid questions
about how to continue to live, and what I have on my personal.

melancholy sometimes comes to tea.
days, nights.
it happens,
tumbles brazenly with wet strands, everything around will splatter.
he takes the soul in the net, hits it like an anvil.
but still I want the warmth of a wordless dear and close.

to fill all the nooks and crannies of happiness,
cast your gaze beyond the horizons that are wrapped in secrets.
in the world to be a symbol and representative of only good,
therefore, on reflection, she whispered to herself: "take off, come on!"

with force spread her wings, stretched sweetly,
as if from a long sleep.
smiling, she flew high, bathing in the moonlight.
and it seemed to an ant that he was watching furtively from below,
as if she herself.
shining .. holding his breath, he watched the wind dancing with her.

all his relatives have long been in the anthill after the worker.
and he, guided by a feeling even incomprehensible to himself,
crawled to the starry sky to watch every night,
although he understood that a miracle would hardly appear to him there.

it appeared as snow-white light wings,
calming the confusion for a moment in the ant's soul.
but the thought: "oh, if we soared together ..", -
swept over the consciousness of a violent avalanche.

he would like to follow her, to this height, to heaven!
and touch the light even for a moment,
but she climbed higher and there
not to hear her (was) ant-like desires ..

flew away, and he remained below,
silently admiring, outwardly - completely selflessly,
but in my soul there was all the disasters of natural riot.
which was raised by a simple butterfly effect.

Part 2

The city will calm the ants.
throw on a sheet.
bed the bum a cozy trash can.
he, hobbling, will finish
bottle of bitter hateful.
beats the lazy hungry belly to the alarm.

And somewhere under the lamps, pretty weakened,
the prisoner beats in the shackles of creativity.
his name is Poet, he steps on a rake
every time entering the poetry forges.

he doesn't know why, but he just wants to
somewhere to put the waste of your loneliness,
he does not mind and become the one to whom they would have prophesied
stellar future, and beyond the line
writes a line,
has long been offended by the whole world.
Paris is not important to him, it is important to him - if only,
so that loved ones can be close, closer.
and you and I are the same .. you hear, we are
also..
we break the horcruxes of our souls ..
even though they are ordinary citizens in the world of poetry ..
no one will say about us in a hundred years,
they say, they committed loud thefts from the muse.

it was Rain - now a shower of problems,
common sense flew away with the Birds,
in Hell there has long been only dust and decay.
and Sheva has no more ambitions to spoil.

and what to strive for? Too Much Truth
Mocco FM plays on the radio.
But once, remember, we are on an equal footing
just writing, not for money and fans.

What is our misfortune, gentlemen poets?
Why does it happen that a verse is not written?
maybe all the cries of delirium have subsided in my head,
that a day was not given before
without rhymes, without these emotional distress,
when even life is a continuous crash test.
when you are completely covered with your head
this spirit of freedom in a small world.

and Froddo will not carry the ring to the volcano,
he has loans, a bride, a mortgage.
but what the calamity is, it is not clear to the end,
if someone calls my poems rap?