Наследник feat. ION - Девятого числа
текст песни

Introduction.
There they are! Fire! Grenade launchers, fire, do not leave the position, stand to the end ...!
-Boets, hold the left sector ...
-There is comrade major!
-Capitan, to the mortar, hit the right, closer to the river ...
-Tat the mortar ...!
-Boets, you are on the very front edge, hold on a son, good luck ... a company to battle!

Board.
Hello grandfather, pulling the hip, I write letters with tears.
Tell me my grandfather, how to survive here without feeding the birds?
The sky is mother -of -pearl today, on a loud morning.
Our company is stormed, grandfather, we break the face of fear.
The groin shot me and turned a large tubular bone.
My commander gave the order, leave, fight in the rear!
The eyebrow does not tremble, I am deaf, they will aim at the head of the network.
Finger phalanges will not let cold steel let go.
I thought at a moment, rubbing ointments into the holes.
After all, we will die here, and the thought of victory fantasy.
The shells are rumbling, near positions, our brothers.
Lead enemies, rags leave us.
Grandfather tell me what goal does our mission be?
Close your mouth of a soldier, shoot, tear your throats, be terrible for them!
Be horror for them, be pride for us, everything is simple!
For your own, for everything! For everything! Do you hear? Here's a task!
The company will click the shutters, the clang will sound like a song ..
The living people are not visible here, everyone who remained, the first!
People died during life, leaving blood spots.
On a fragile foliage, all the time, scarlet days of war.
Two seconds of lull, stretch for years in seconds.
Young grandfathers are spilled in whose eyes.
A cocktail of pain from tears and blood, the earth drinks without drunk.
At these moments, I know, my mother is madly needed.
Wake up without falling asleep, putting a bullet in the sternum.
To love life without dying, to stay alive.
And damp, painful, wet, hungry, cold, beautiful!
The night showered the sky with dots, the points of war.
In non -reprimands, in the pits of dreams covered with moss.
Again, the old man welcomes me with his right hand.
Son, your war under your heart stores the number nine.
And a year after year, she will become no one.
I felt sick, the figures grew up, the circle closed.
The machine guns spoke persistently,
The sun appeared on the horizon, trembling on the skin.
Today we can’t die, so we live on!
And so I want to burst into tears, shooting in their heads ...
We are the victims of the drunken century, their divisions of the asexual.
I wiped sweat from my forehead, sweat abundantly.
I made a mistake, the body pulled down the fired forehead.

Chorus.
The soldier stood to the end, to the last cartridge.
The sunset carried away his soul, breaking off the defense.
From above I saw something else, but not a war.
There, the mothers of the dead sons met a victory.