Billy Milligan - Мертвая тишина
текст песни

The dead silence of the voice is devoid of.
And the whole earth around - scorched, burned out.
The dead silence of the voice is deprived.
If you haven't died yet, survive!

Your mouths are sewn up with white threads.
In weakness of recognition, who made it under torture.
Fluently, attempts, with eternal wary.
As if flying in the dark on the oncoming lane, on the red.
Promises a penny, and this is a market value,
Your happiness everything was built here.
It is more difficult to throw the shackles from yourself than put on others.
Your painful pain is not from your hand anywhere.
This is a fall, not take off, do not even hope.
You went in white in the wrong place, here is the mob and soot.
In these wilds, you made only enemies to yourself.
And there is no one who would be secretly managed to get out of here.
In order to survive in this meat grinder.
Life mocks all of us, like Horace.
Those who collect skeletons in the closet are hovering.
Turning his triumph into an absurd embarrassment.
Prisoners of the circumstances created by us.
We look up, and underfoot stellar deposits.
Someone will lick the wounds, someone will die of illusions.
The words of repentance are my method, and soon I will achieve them.
Sanding clock crashed on a stone look,
You grabbed the opportunity with your hands for no vain.
The sighted does not mean the perspicacious, so look at both.
The one who has already betrayed you once again.
I hear voices in my head.
Kindness is given to punishment in return.
They have been buried alive, but not yet in the know.
The bypass is prohibited, and x*th with it.
The interlocutors inside are dead, like you.
The fanatics wiped the shrine to the holes.
The door is closed, and to no avail, re -knock into it.
There is also a conspiracy of silence.

The dead silence of the voice is devoid of.
And the whole earth around - scorched, burned out.
The dead silence of the voice is deprived.
If you haven't died yet, survive!

Indifference cuts more acutely than a razor.
For silence, not the best time you chose.
Pret the conclusions late, reap the fruits.
On your grave, only silence will leave the traces.
Not a drop of repentance, empty in the shower.
The brain still thinks, but there is no pulse already.
A dull plot is a bright tomorrow.
The aroma of freedom smells stinking and dangled.
Falls to the temptations, begging mercy.
The strength of the doh*I am, but the mind did not appear.
Loud by the ideas of unnecessary utopias.
And those who can save us soullessly drowned.
In captivity of self -deception, then the mustache, then Obama.
Everyone is to blame, only not us, to dig into the shame.
The wound wanders and there is no end to these torments forever.
But a little that we immediately raise our hands up.
This nation has become to repent in the blood.
We hate power, but erect to the pedestals.
The pride of the p*building, although by Nooy is the opposite.
But once again we give them again to belittle us.
We walk around the edge, celebrating our failures.
The commandments are the same, everything is simply called differently.
The ulcers on the body of society hurts.
Even the heroes have been deprived of honors for a long time.
And this is the bottom, there is no below, Captain Namo.
Anyway, not a tenant, about the heels of Nemo.
Death goes for each of us constantly.
Seconds are running, the hour of repentance is near.
We ask for alms, stooped in tears.
Again, justifying those who are created to steal them.
The door was closed and to no avail knocking on it.
There is also a conspiracy of silence.

The dead silence of the voice is devoid of.
And the whole earth around - scorched, burned out.
The dead silence of the voice is deprived.
If you haven't died yet, survive!