Metox - Лойко Зобар
текст песни

Reality is a belated dream, woven with forgotten fear.
- And I can't convince the medical staff of that.
I threw away these medications, cursed the fake sugar.
The administration is an escape, and the suitcase is a train station.
The hands of Soviet prisoners are a sleeper grid of scars.
Along it, like a locomotive, I rush to the crossing.
Where, like a magical camp, we light fires.
Our hearts are full, but our heads are empty.
But the devils are getting closer, whispering, frozen.
Noting the posts and other shameful things.
Statements, denunciations of Harlequin's carelessness.
Didn't you know mournful masks suit everyone?
- Run to the free issue, to the sweaty camp of queues! I admit, life is more fun among the inhuman.
Destroying public order with cunning mockery
Then they'll catch us again with bags.
So I wrote texts in Latin characters, one line at a time, without spaces.
Bent over the lamp, 1/3 of my knee,
So that during a search, the cops wouldn't be sent to the detention center.
And my own people wouldn't think there were denunciations there for the peons.
In the basement transit cell, there was ice from the floor to the faucet.
There were no windows, and the water there was frozen.
On an open white package of Sormovo cookies, I write stanzas of sayings in pencil.
When I've sold a kilogram in a month, I'm on sedatives.
I'm blabbering about career advancement for my parents.
And hiding packages in the bushes, again from new batches.
I never stopped writing for a second.
No matter how paranoid I am, I wouldn't have stopped running the place.
Only prison helped me see it differently.
I I compose punchlines, no matter what the day.
This is my only support, just like death.
You're blaming me for the unjust system and hunger.
I simply believed in my work among the corpses in the bunks.
Even if the tails are behind, the focus is always forward.
No matter how bad things are now, this too shall pass.
You told me that a poorly organized schedule makes me snap at the management's insensitivity.
And how can I even think about business here? Musical stuff? - When should you at least try to pay off a loan?
And they shouted at me that they'd kill me, but I still sold it.
They accused me of verses, but I still wrote.
After all, we have the same ending, the only difference is this:
Did you come there like a jerk or did you fight?
I remember how my parents had to sell their apartment.
I worked for pennies, giving everything to the guards.
But I believed that the sun would definitely rise.
My fingers warmed from the cold, writing in an underground passage.
And now I'm fucking bitches, then I disappear again, disgustingly.
After all, I know that feelings will interfere with interests.
But suddenly a swallow flies by, circling in an azure dress.
One meeting, a second, immobilized by embraces.
It's not written like that anymore, huh? Just like that? Who's been lying the whole track about how you can break his dick?
It's easy to fight when you're a convict, a drug dealer, or a teenager.
But before love, you're you, and you can't play with it.
Everything becomes unimportant—is it a gift or a curse?
To gain warmth but lose freedom.
It's harder than dealing with bazaars in a prison cell.
And for some reason, this always stops me from composing.
Waltzing on the strings of a romantic gut.
A blade plunges into the heart, eyes pierce into the eyes.
Waltzing on the strings of a romantic gut.
A blade plunges into the heart, eyes pierce into the eyes.
Eyes pierce into the eyes.
Eyes pierce into the eyes.
Romantic gut.
Makar Chudra:
We hadn't even had time to guess what Zobar wanted to do,
and Radda was already lying on the ground, with Zobar's curved knife stuck up to the hilt in her chest.
We were numb. And Radda snatched the knife away, threw it aside, and, pressing a strand of her black hair against the wound,
smiling, said loudly and clearly:
"Goodbye, Loiko! I knew you'd do this!"—and then she died...