🌟 ТОП треков в стиле Каспийского груза, ЮГ, Нигатив, TGK 🔥 #рэп #русскийрэп #s4va #музыка #топ 🌟
I am in the quarter where the concrete slabs whisper, where forgive. It is a rarity, like light in orbit, where the boys rot for their old mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was with them there, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where there is a knife in the back, no shot, no rules. And whoever survived, is soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and breaks. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. Everything is forgiven in paradise, but here from under the sole, where children are buried under their mothers for sure. And when you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own destiny. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends like machine guns in battle. Each like a brother, but the finals are shovels. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith if God turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles to reason. You can’t be alive here without leaving nicks. Where is forgiveness, it is not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. My scars are not just a history of the body, they are chapters from books. Where the soul went numb. I went through hell, but it did not forgive. Remained in debt to memory. The rear does not cry here. They laugh in the face of agony and survive. Who will be the first to go for irony? Who will betray completely, who will throw off the balance. But forgive me, you are ridiculous, brother, everyone is dangerous here. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me like on the walls of the zone. There is a genuine fire in these eyes. I live as I am, by the dark laws. Let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. Don’t ask me to be someone I was not. My past is coal. There are only ashes in my soul, no one will come for me with a white crown. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayer, as my brothers left. Ashes are ashes, but with pride in every ruin. Don’t wait for my tears, don’t believe in redemption. I left in this darkness without hope for forgiveness. I am unforgiven, not by will, but by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I am looking for myself in these faces. I cry my eyes out, but my soul is empty. And who am I for a world where only concrete reigns? Where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I am alone in the dark? Where are my demons louder than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear? Who am I when they don’t believe in me? On my own brother. Who am I if I became a traitor to myself? I am the one who fell and rose again. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Me again and again, again and again. I am where the emptiness meets the light. The one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am an extension of pain, but I found myself in it. I am not a hero and not an angel. I am simply alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those no one heard. I am the truth that remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I must go with this. I am the one who fell and rose by me. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Me again and again, again and again. I am where the emptiness meets the light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. Yes, again and again, again and again. In every step, in every breath, in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear, as long as the heart burns. I am me and my path speaks. I see in old courtyards, where the asphalt is like a book. Each hole is a story of pain, but somewhere in the drops, on the windows are the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light, in my mother’s words: “Don’t freeze, get dressed.” In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there, behind the scenes of our tomorrow in ripe cherries, in the silence of the passages. In how we love in any weather. He is in every step, when you go nowhere, and everything inside whispers: “Live”, despite God is not visible, but He is behind your back. In the look of a passerby, in the phrase wait, in the smell of a downpour, in the ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I feel him when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky, and we are both not broken. He is not in the icons, he is in the cigarettes. In those that we share in the morning in the ghetto, in small hopes, in a cold entrance. In each one he is still alive and in each unflattery. He is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In a girl, that walks barefoot through the train station, there God is not in the gilding, but in her fatigue. In your thoughts, in your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in the role. Even when everyone has left and you are at zero. Open the window. Brother, he is nearby, in the darkness, God is not visible, but he is behind the back, in the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of the rain, in the ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him, when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky, and we are both not broken. You will say: “I do not believe.” I will say: “It does not matter.” God is not a form, nor a court, nor a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not have been. He is in every rhyme that I put here. You are not sleeping either? Too many questions, right? And the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen. Where does honor end and profit begin. If time heals, why is it burned out inside? Why are words like a blade, but you haven’t heard them? And why, when you love, do they only strangle you more? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for them so much? Why do lies warm us, like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus? Even if the body is in the subject, how much is conscience worth in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in mash? Why do children from the street grow up faster? And why are they put in the cold in the body for a word? Questions hang in the air, like smoke from armor. How many times was I right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, do you hear? The silence is also loud. Questions. Why is there not always honor on shoulder straps? Why is there a slap on the neck for the truth? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness, and who is in the law? If everyone is afraid of the truth, why is it the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t we get our mother’s voice back in childhood? And why are we silent when our heart is cracking? If there is meaning, where can we look for it in this noise, why is loneliness like in the noise? Why, when everyone is alone in a dead end and how many times has the soul screamed in a bottle? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times was he right, but remained guilty. Where can I find an answer if everything has already been sold? Brother, can you hear? Silence is also loud. Questions. Where is that paradise that they shout about from the minaret? Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you are from the street, then who are you in life? If you are silent, it means you have been sold out for your principles. Why, when you die, is everyone nearby only then? Why do I love later than necessary? There are no answers and maybe there never will be. But if you are still here, you are not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like a code at random. There is no Photoshop in this, no cheap themes. These words are like a sharp knife and will not leave any problems. In the area they say, like, a dangerous type. But I just see the falseness where you hear the beat, I do not write under trends. I do not need hype. I have truth in the lines, in the lines of Skype. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent, then remained without a face. This is a street without light. But I see the track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my amulet. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they stand in the corner. Neither, nor a performance. This is a dirty route, where gold from the bullet is imposed on the word. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a gun, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in a movie frame. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still, how many faces I have seen that fell into lies. And I stood on the truth, even if not in power. My heart is cold, like February ice. But my soul is burning, as if in a cage it is about to take off. You read about Gucci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces I did not sell my soul. Not for a feat, not for Cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Each syllable is a trace, like from a boot on a tile. This is not commerce, bro. This is mole. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they are put in the corner. Neither, nor a performance – this is a dirty route, where, according to the word nave, gold from the bullets of the shore. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a gun, I protect it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts, like a cigarette, that before ash. I am not a fashionable author. I am like a judge in the darkness, the word is my law. And I write about myself. I am the day from the lantern, where there is no one, there I am too, can you hear me? Hardly. Silence, my most honest Interlocutor. Again night and emptiness. Neither we nor Da are left here. The city is humming, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world had arranged a bo for me. I look at the sky, as if into a black faucet. There is no ending there, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, like us. No matter how much you call, it would be the same. The bench creaks under me, like conscience. In this darkness I am a reflection of the story. All conversations, like an echo in concrete, I am to myself and a chain of wills. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it’s too late . The wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence, no matter how much I shout into the void. Only the yard hears, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I’m drowning – the world is growing paler. They wanted to understand, but they couldn’t. They are open. I am like a city of dust. Every step is like against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain for me. People flashed like frames in a broken screen, the scars disappeared. I ask for neither love nor peace. It is enough for me to be alive without heroes. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it is too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or a sentence, no matter how much I scream into the void. Only the courtyards hear, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It does not matter. I am used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I do not write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time, an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. My word is a machine gun, rhythm is a stream of lights. I didn’t play heroes, but I kept my balance when the streets whispered on. This is your chance. All my lines are like a challenge to the system. Each truth is a bomb that tears a million voices on the stage. But the truth is in one. I don’t pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rhyme is like a knife on glass. I didn’t come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the carrion kings in the console part. I walked the tightrope without looking down. Each line is my life motto. On the beats as on the field I am a fighter without counting. My verses, like the truth, are bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in rhythm. I hit the chest of the era, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and my foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes. I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not to please. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it tightly. As long as the heart beats, I live indefinitely. Indefinitely indefinitely. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You are looking for salvation, it is in my lines. I turn pain into music of the living. Forget about the format. I break patterns. My tracks are like dreams, but without a veil. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. This is the truth. You can’t even buy it. Don’t twist it. This is not just rap. This is the last word. I am here to ignite, not to be ready. Every line is like a point-blank shot, I was born to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I will leave behind the lines. In them the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I am not in trend, I am out of time, like ash in the wind. But my voice will live, even if I die. Listen with your soul. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. Against the background of the streets is concrete and melancholy. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent. Dad drank. But I became my own. Became like metal. Everyone says, be like everyone else, but why, if all these scars are in the system? Tried to be right, there was emptiness. Now in every verse there is my anger and dream. Micro, my torch, rhymes like an explosion. I write as if this is my last touch. Night in the neighborhood, silence and sirens. We are the generation of a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I’m at home in this track. Where is my success? It’s in the notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in trouble and salt? Where is my faith on the cops’ backs? But even in hell I hold my front. How many of us are here? Who of us is alive? Who didn’t give up when the world screams where is the love in these eyes without fire? You won’t understand if you haven’t been like me. I fly through the beat like a bullet in the skull. I hear trust through the dirt and concrete. This is the opposite street from TikTok and not dreams. This is where tears in the eyes of the boys are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If your heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, in the air. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. I am not a star, I am not a blogger, not a genius. I am just the voice of the ghetto on stage. No matter how much pain there is inside, I rhyme to live like you. Listen, I don’t know where you will be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is a path. Keep it inside. Listen, be not the one who shouts, but the one who hears. In silence, too, the truth is purer. Look into the eyes of those who are near you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent in truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but I get up with a thought to fly. And remember, do not be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like a light in the depths, I will be like a voice in the darkness. I will not be a shadow, but an essence. Even when I forget everything. I will. I will, I promise I will. Do not look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a lock. Do not hide it in vain. Whoever truly loves always comes back himself. Believe, but do not love blindly, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If it suddenly becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you. You are also the fire. Appreciate those who are near, not later, but in the moment. Life is handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that you breathe openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through the bed. I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire, I will be and will not disappear later. I will be , I will be, I promise, I will be. We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok. The real world is like an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone in the world we have forgotten how to live. Without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without show-offs and showcases. This verse is for those who are silent. Burning. Our mothers pray that we don’t get lost, and we are in algorithms that broke us. Can you hear my beat? This is a heart in wires. Too loud inside to stay in the shadows. We are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be. We live online. And in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart offline, but the soul screams like a head. Where to find your paradise? If the world is clicks of words, I saw children who do not know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise on stories. Here, brother, we lose our roots. After all, we value untruth, and the fact that we form these filters, like masks on scars. In the photos we are alive, but in life there is drama. We try to look better than we are, but happiness is not a pixel, but who is here next to us. My lines are like a knife, cutting through the fog. I am not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us on the stream. But if you feel pain, know that you are not alone. And even if you are lost, the world inside you is not a version of demo. Look at all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. But we are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online, and in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart. offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, it is not just a sound, it is a cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds. There is a way out. It is inside, not in the feed, in you. How love dies not with a scream, but with a whisper in rooms with a booming echo. First breath, then phone, then nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if in debt you looked out the window. I will run into myself. There is nothing left, forgive me, there is nothing left, I love. Just know, I will play with him on the ice later. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times when you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two, but the more you breathed, the faster the departure. I tried to understand where the rib was lost, where from music and feeling went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall. But in the walls, too, I remained with you. You are like a song without words, I am like a beat without movement. We went to the corners, like a fall of overthrow. We didn’t burn out right away, but that’s more important. Love dies when no one else hurts. How love dies, not with a shot, but with rain on glass, where there are no more of us. Like a silent train station without a ticket office, like a sunset that says goodbye. Without saying wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life. Not with scandals, like a cup broken in the wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am already unloved. I remember your look, like a tired February. You were looking for spring, but brought only sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I am angry. You are tired of hoping that I will change. I smoked by the window, as if this was where I was saved. But you can’t hide a broken movement in smoke. You were lying in bed, not next to each other, but we ate, but as if behind a curtain in another parallel we quietly left, simply returned the tickets. The film where we were the finale of the film. Rivers are not friends, just dust on the glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness I am not a saint, you are not a victim. We simply did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, the hour can still be heard in its silence. How love dies neither by death nor by thunder. But by steps in others with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on a hand. Not mine, but for you. How love dies without reasons and without quarrels. Just in a world where time erases space. And I am no longer yours, and you are not mine. But in our silence the pain is still alive. How love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. And as in the emptiness without goodbyes, without drama, without words, that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but the lines of fates have become crooked and the looks are empty. Brother, I see them, I dream of the living. Shadows on the walls, like a memory of pain. I’m not running, I’m standing at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but there’s lava inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet. I shoot out of shape. True, it burned my fingers like a flame on a house, but I didn’t burn out. I became her warrior. Not for the air, not for distribution. This is my path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric current under the shoulder blades. But I didn’t blow up. I became strong, like a fact. This is a new day. This is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not bother me. This is a new day. All your screams do not heal the wounds. All this hate has become like a mantra for me. Quiet. I explode at the start and finish. I’m not in pursuit, I’m already a virus. Years are flowing through my veins, but I’m not frozen. I’ve become like foam. They’re crushing us from above, but we’re on the rise. Dust on the sneakers, medals in the album. You wanted rap? Get what you deserve. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a beard. I’m not one of those who lose their phase. My verse is a shot into the future right away. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I don’t live for the hype of history. My intellect is my territory. Each of my words is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day. This is a new path. If you’ve lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you’ve erased everything, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not stop me. This is a new day. Oh, oh, the light falls, I stand under it. I’m not a saint, but I’m not alone. The flame inside, I need smoke. To become yourself, you have to become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up for ourselves. Respect. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved themselves when they were drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not shout at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on the chest? Who was on the run from themselves in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive. Who changed cities, but did not run away from pain. Who built themselves not by fashion, but by will. Who took the microphone when there was a storm in the heart? Who carried rhymes, like bullets in the forehead? Who had no chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in the fruit? Who, if all this is gross, who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who, if you are a brother? Who, if all this is, who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though he fell by morning. Who was homeless in someone else’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when the pain is like a nail? Who speaks the truth, when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond the edge, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn back later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but rose without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Who, if you are a brother? Who, if all this? Who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who are you when the light goes out and no one calls? When everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who is the edge? I go to the end, even if it is dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass, my thoughts, like blades, cut knives. My track is not hits. This is a cry from the soul. Thousands of faces and not a single one of my own. I was looking for someone, I found only about her. Every step, like ice, there is emptiness beneath me. But I believe that purity is worth the pain. I did not build palaces, I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there has been no spring for a long time. But I believe in the fire that remained in my eyes. I go to the end. Even I, as a result, to the end, without looking back. Let it not be water that flows through the Vedas, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust, this is my crossroads, but I believe through the darkness. It is possible to break into the air, I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway trains. But I chose to go, even if there is trouble. My lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. They burn as an answer to those who did not notice. I am not an angel and not an executioner. I am only the one who is tired, but did not lie down, did not fall. I did not lie to myself. This is the main thing in the rhythm. I am in hell, but with fire that will not die yet. In this city shadows replace faces in this heart, like ice. But it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and am silent, but I live. I will go to the end without looking back. Let not water flow through the times, but passion. Let everything be broken dust, this is my crossroads, but I believe through the darkness you can break out into the air I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. Ah, ah . People break down in silence, like children grow on a concrete wall. Like mothers wait, but do not hear the bell, and memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending. We change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone remains to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint. I myself fell to my knees, to the bottom under someone else’s psalm, but rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are dots in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it is important how much is in the account, but it is important who cries when you go into the void. All dust is the light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave again together, where pain, happiness are not enemies and brothers. Life is linear. It rolls in circles through dust and light, through fear and summer. One path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken gut. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies, it is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain through media dreams, we run for meaning, losing feelings, as if the soul is just a device. But I will try to live one day in warmth, not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. All dust is the light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where there is pain, happiness, not enemies, brother. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, neither tears nor troubles. We are part of one river that flows through worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be human, that is the truth. Out loud. Everything will return, good and evil. breath. We are part of the universe, not a body, but a glow. And let everything pass, as this track will pass. A trace will remain, if there was light in it. In this smoke, the night dissolves, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am in an empty city. In the area everything is in a circle, guys, concrete melancholy. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I haven’t had strong wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. It was my doping. Now even in other people’s clothes you look like a copy. My heart in compression presses like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. I’m not full of alcohol. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit me on the rights. I’m in a hoodie, but not a gufty, not a saint. You are like a tolerant, at first it gets you high, then it doesn’t hit. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidote. The transvestite goes out, and I disappear like smoke. Your name still sounds in my head. I fade away like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not here, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold, poor plot, you remained my flashback in a cassette. You rode on the hype, and on your thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, in headphones. Silence. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played at love, and I lived in it without excess. In the area, everything is still windy, balcony. You will not return, but I do not call reason. My world is gray asphalt and beats. You are like a filter in the Internet, everything is beautiful, but not you. How many fake, I miss, how much pain. Forgive me, you are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I do not hold a grudge, I just do not believe anymore. You, like a cartridge in the chamber, killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidote is rejected. The light goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But in my head your name still sounds. I am fading like a lamp in an empty entryway. You are not here, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. I wish you freedom, the kind that cannot be captured in a photo. And that you would not hide from the truth in someone else’s arms. I am like a shadow, and you are like a lighthouse. I used to save, but not anymore. I do not need light, I have been in the dark for a long time. I do not call God, he was not in me. The world is like a noose, and I am in it on my cheek. I am writing this verse as if I am saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother was squeezing my veins? When my brother was leaving with no chance for change, when the city was screaming, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I looked for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles will block the sermon, as if prestrelis. I looked for it in myself, but found only silence that burns from within, as if I were pouring on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I am my own cross. On my shoulders is unbelief, and concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write an ending here. Children die here so that someone would remain silent. Where was God when it burned inside? When days are nightless, when interrogations are in the shadows, I don’t swear by it and don’t ask heaven. I just read until a tear falls. Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind your back, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself. The only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist, I survived in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh, when I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon in the war. Do you hear the sound? It’s not just a beat, it’s the crunch of a dream that left without protection. I’m not in the top, but in the hearts of those who dance with the shadow, and not with likes for success. Where was God, when it burned inside, when days are a demon of nights, when prayers are in the shadows, I do not swear and do not ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. A tear. If you feel, then you are alive. It means that rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I am not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I am just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just where they eat, they live. People go here when everything collapses. Someone cries, someone is silent. And the kitchen will not return. In the kitchen, in the kitchen, in the kitchen, where time in both is like in wounds. We sit at night, confession on the couches, like jury tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. An ashtray is full of thoughts with blood. Since childhood, we learned not to believe in sweat. With God, dreams smoke here, not letting the world into the end. Neighbor from the fourth, third term, like a prisoner. Salt has crumbled, fate with it. You should have seen how your brother left for nowhere in February. We are not crying, our eyes are just tired. The word “love” has been replaced with “fallen” here. In the kitchen in the tender Khrushchev-era buildings, where dreams and echoes are stored, the salt of the road is scattered and milk is on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been different. But everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is law, but the soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance will not hear. There is a scream in every teapot, a protest in every look. Shoes are not taken off, which means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. On In the kitchen, marriages and wars are decided, and in a mug with a crack, there is a whole homeland. My paradise passed here, hanging by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come to the kitchen.” Everything is like last year. In the kitchen in careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams for descendants, salt scattered along the paths and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been good. Everything could have been good, but it couldn’t. In the kitchen, we lived as if it were our last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain people. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? You remember. I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a finale with a happy ending here. Here, everyone in armor has decorated their minds with rap. I’m not in trend, I’m out. My lines are not just phrases, they are bullets in time. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where there is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder behind the scenes. It is heard through millions. Only just. Truth in trouble. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this is the essence, not vanity. I have not been sold, I have not forgotten. So I am alive, so I am alive. I am not a phantom from TikTok, I am a cat on rusty concrete. My heart beats under Narsen, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I understood what the essence is. Rapney flex and non-chain. This is pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance, reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples, in someone who can do everything in himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot. But underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, not in trends, not in hit parades. I am in the eyes of the boys who dream of being near. I am in mistakes, falls, in every broken day, but I get up like dawn and breathe in fire. Only truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My lines are a shield. In them, freedom says everything that was brought out of the fire. This is the essence, not vanity. I am not sold, I have not forgotten. It means I am alive, it means I am alive. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light when the eyes are in smoke? Where is the top? If I do not understand myself, we build days from emptiness and screams. How much longer to remain silent when the soul is great? I see people with masks on their faces, but behind the smile there are wounds not from a fairy tale. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday, but tramples the good to get out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are scrapped under a new bow, where love is like a commodity on a shelf online, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light, where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are running from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are running from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the line between lies and fear, where is the soul that you can’t buy for a price list. We are in an era where feeling is weakness, and honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through, but the walls muffle the truth so as not to break. Silence is a friend of lies, it is in fashion, but I go forward, on the edge not in code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They cannot be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it is dark, the light is not outside. The light has been inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, as long as you are not shadows, nor dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, as long as you are not shadows, nor dust, but fate. If you hear, do not be silent, you are not alone, and I am not in the shadow. Shine in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it is in you. Time passes, like a shadow behind, and we still stand, as if this life is building. Those who made noise have long been out of the ranks. I am still here, on the old edge. The photo in the album shows a black and white block where the concrete smell of anital signal was present. There, instead of likes, there were cries of “Stop!” And everyone had something different under their shirt. Bars without neon lights and concrete. Bits from a cassette tape, an iPhone again. Those who were nearby, they went to the end. They disappeared like a pixel from a face. The sound of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Those who lived without masks were doomed. Words were kept not for show, but so that the house wouldn’t shake under it. The era is gone, but the eyes remain. Voices blazed in concrete courtyards. We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remain, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in veins. But in each of us there is a street scene, where you are my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like concrete icons. Texts on the walls are like an eternal tablet. We do not need likes, we need steel morality. Gone to report, this noise came, but you will not replace the smell and strings for me. I am still the same with a face at the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of the shop windows. The era is gone, like a ship without a mother took with it. Those who could remain silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With the era in our chests, but with a different boundary. This is not rap, this is an exhalation, this is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to feng shui, but like troubles. Like troubles. The era is gone, gone. We are still here. When I am gone, it will be quieter in the gateway. Where my voice was, only footsteps at an empty job, where I left my soul, now there is smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold power in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say: “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear, like a look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out, when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? Let the last candle burn in the temple, when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle above the cross, where my name is carved with an uneven knife? Who will understand what burned inside me, when the world lived, and I walked through the darkness? The words that I dropped into the notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the sterns and thunderstorms. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out, when at the bottom. What will happen, when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me, if I close my eyes? What will happen, when the soul evaporates? In the temple the last candle will burn out, when they will forget my name forever. What will happen to me, if I close my eyes? I am not afraid. I have already been below, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak, like ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. in the evening on the pit to lie down veche Cher in the window trembles not he. I was born in the bit, to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who you became? But I’m on fire among the ashes, like a tired Phoenix.” Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. No one burns your path, but silently holds the frame. I dreamed that I was falling from the roof, but the earth was erased by the night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I’m not here for fame, I’m here so as not to go crazy. While you like the photo, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight silence. My language, I speak between the lines, you read if you’re not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear a volcano chest. I saw how faith breaks in people. In myself in words, how dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they beat with cold lead. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. I am not a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on the drafts of those burned stronger. A generation of phones and likes on photos of pain, but where are you, when I was drowning in emptiness, did not sweep. My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with a thread, but with a beaten rhythm. If the heart froze, then someone inside is killed. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to remain in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to stay in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of the era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let They will say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete to this eternal century. And while my voice is beaten, I am alive despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply one of them. So many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, as if everything is starting over. In the kitchen there is a kettle, smoke in the window and thoughts without an ending. Why do I run every day, where the path leads, if I do not know who I am, how to choose anchors. There are hundreds of phrases in the phone, but not a single one is alive. All on business, all according to the mind. But someone with a head: “I don’t need applause, likes, false hype. I’d like to understand why I’m here before I go to heaven. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to lift me up with the end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever anymore, just until soon. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times. Found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I’m going where the light is, even though it’s barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in medals I lost myself, found it again 100 times. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. Building peaks. The goal is not the top. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. On each turn a new one had to. You either swim or drown yourself, as you were. Fate is not a joke, this is a path without dubbing. You will not re-record a scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased the number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. And if suddenly I disappear, knowing, was not under contract, not on business, but for love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light. Even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself. Despite the blood, I go where the light is, even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite on blood. The goal is not the peaks, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice comes and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise. But in this chaos, you are my silence. Oh, my silence. Oh. Do you remember how we had conversations without words? Fingers tremble, as if there is a ringing in the heart. You are like midnight, where the stars burn for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of old books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain acquires meaning inside. I was nobody before you. Zero on wind, but you gave me fire even in the fierce January. As long as you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. As long as you are near, I live without breathing. Among millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. My silence. You are like an exhalation, a moment where no one was breathing. Between you and me there is no past. You are a scar like a chord that sounds between phrases. And each of your gestures is jazz. I no longer search for why, for what and why. You are my answer in this world. Where it is dark all around, let everything change, collapse, melt. If you are near, this world does not die. As long as you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. As long as you are near, I live without breathing. The essence of millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. It is not the light that breaks through me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across the cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse goes on as if inspired. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, Don’t call me today, no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me – it’s just a beat. My memory flies gloriously in parts, grain by grain, across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse goes . Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. And today, no one’s cry. The streets whisper to me again, cool down. But inside, like a fire, you can’t put out gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t catch them. Too much love, but I didn’t survive here. Somewhere out there is my double. He follows in the footsteps, but burns bridges. He is like me. Only a ghost to the smoke. He won’t say breathe. He doesn’t know spring. I trampled the day like cigarette butts in the entrance. I was looking for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response, this world is like a cracker. Either a verse or a godmother. Believed the beat is more alive than all the places. This is my holy sin. To live without goals and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain and without dreams. This is my black rain, drops of pain without dreams. It is not the light that breaks through me, it is just a beat. As if my memory is flying in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a trace. But my verse is running through my veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am no one’s cry. It is not the light that breaks through me, it is just a beat. As if my memory is flying in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a trace. My verse is running through my veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear somewhere, a brother is on the corner, in his eyes is dust. Mom prays for us, but we are drowning in business. This beat is like a lantern that leads through the courtyards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Do not hold any grudges or guilt against me. I just was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. Let the whisper from the speakers remind me of my style. In these lines, all the pain without a prefix. Sweet, if we meet, suddenly don’t look into my dreams. I will remain a beat. I will dissolve until spring. I will dissolve until spring. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory is in parts, grain by grain, flying across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. But my verse flows through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory is flying in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness, without sleep. But my verse flows through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. Are you ready to hear what sounds in the silence? It’s at the end. Listen, I’m not looking for likes. It’s important to me that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I saw endings on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last one on the eve of the bet and the scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I am learning not to fall, even when everyone around me has fallen. How many times they betrayed me, I did not count, I counted. Shagimir hugs with a knife, smiling like a friend. I am a product of the street of pain, where a word is like a shot in the chest, where you pay for the truth with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone, what is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me, what is in the end. What is in the end? I am not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night is like the last battle. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like a razor’s gleam. The city changes faces, but the concrete stays with me. Here you can be anyone until you stand up for battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd. And those who were below, go like tanks through the darkness and everyday life. I did not sell my style for trends, I did not buy myself a role. My rhymes are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path and game are here. There is no button to start again. So, either you burn like fire, or you go out like a lamp in the dirt. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me, what’s in the end. What’s in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but you’ll be forgotten on Monday. You can buy everything, but you can’t buy more. So tell me honestly, what’s in the end. I’m not an idol, I’m a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals. How knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who are silent are often closer to the soul. I’m in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it doesn’t lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when it all burns out, where will you be? What’s in the end, when the smoke clears, when everyone leaves, when you’re left alone? Tell me, what’s in the end. What’s in the end? How much does it take to understand that it is not eternal. How many times do you have to fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, not what the packaging glitters for, but the soulful content. What do we spend our days on? Why do we live like this if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me what is more important: to be or to seem. Would you stay yourself if everything broke. I saw a lot of people who were burning with fire, and then sold their souls for likes and a house. Why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-off and guilt? How much does silence cost, honestly, inside, where is the line of goodness and when to cross? Live important, do not love the faithful, rejoice in little, listen to the smart, speak sincerely. Protect the weak. Live right. Only important, only important, only important. Only important. Only important, what is success if you are alone, if you have everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks? Where is the path that you would call true? We look for answers not where the question is. We burn bridges where love could be. Why do we accumulate grievances that eat away inside? Instead of forgiveness, we hold stones in our chest. When the last breath becomes closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? Victories or how you hugged your brother, how you said thank you when there were no words, as if you were there when the roof was collapsing. Live what is important, not what is needed, love the faithful. Rejoice in the little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only the important, only the important. Only the important, only the important. Only the important. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and are simply afraid to admit that what is important is near, but it is not visible. It is not too late, as long as you hear that you live correctly. Shadows on the walls. A murky ribbon in a world where truth is only an experiment. Spikan. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like blades at night on the target. The city like a demon makes noise on the air. They judge for the truth, they are silent like in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, the soul on the glass. An exit without an exit, running on a loop. People go out like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead not from will. And squeeze out a word to the heart, like a crowbar nearer. Those who were already alive in the black silence, those who were faithful, have gone far. Neither Balik nor faith will save here. A veil on the eyes, like a chimera. We run to nowhere in these tracks and schemes. Light at the end, only peace in the tunnels. Everything around Belena, brother, I see right through. Those who were with us long ago, disappear like a guest in this world. Without a bottom, where there is no salvation cane. We go to the end, albeit slowly, vrock is a veil, but the burn is darkness, rewrote its route, cut the trap. You and I are not alone. Even if our flag is torn by the winds, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, you will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, and not just more raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. Didn’t take a serve, didn’t jump into the route, gave a beat, as if it were a parachute, a load on my back, but I didn’t give up the route, so that to the sky, even if the wings don’t grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the darkness. Time does not heal, it just devours those, those who were looking for meaning drowned in emptiness. While others swim, we will emerge at the bottom. I am not a savior, I am just a fire that burns in silence. Under the yoke of pursuits. This is not about style, this is about the essence of damage. My lines, like the truth in tone. Everything around is a veil, but I see myself. And who was near yesterday, left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But under us is concrete, and we hold our tone. Everything around is a veil, but y orbu this cat. I do not believe in a game where there is one turn. We were born in fire, water will not save. If you yourself have not become light, then it is not time. But through it I see the way. Even if the whole world is a court, I walk like many bodies in which there are no souls. With whom the night is like a film, but the morning is like ink. Smeared, truth, on the pillow. Where have you been, nobody she toy. You go out at night, leaving a ringing on the door. Bems without take care of yourself without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. How many such faces, you can’t even remember the names. Empty for tomorrow. As if someone turned off the background. You are again in search, but not for that. You want a look to penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary. With whom you wake up and the whole world is good, with whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom just a night without words. But there are few with whom silence is like blood. With whom not a game, not a pose, not a pose. With whom you want tomorrow without falsehood you can live with anyone, as if together drinking coffee in the morning, arguing to the point of a gesture, going to the south, taking pictures for the feed, putting rings, but living by inertia. You can be, but not love to listen, but inside not hear the scream. Everything according to the rules of common accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? Dreaming is already more difficult here. So that a snow leaf with her initial, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple of sney. There are many with whom you can live as it should, but few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom not in the law, but in conscience purely with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But few are those with whom a blizzard is not scary, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter. with whom even the past is sweeter. And here it is the whole essence in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who is at dawn. Who stays, even if the pain with whomever you want tomorrow you won’t beat, but with the soul like this we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, we lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. Many of those with whom to lie down. Few of those with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, and pit. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, give me a beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is a voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse. Like a shot from the couch – this is what inside cannot be bought for rubles – this is not hype for an hour, but a style for a lifetime. I don’t expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I don’t pretend that everything is behind me. Each text is like a bullet, it flies into the target. I’m not lying, I’m not an actor, not a shadow or a shade. This is mine. You can’t take it away, break it, or burn it. My voice is like a pulse, it goes to meet you. This is mine. Everything that was suffered, taken. My word, like truth, a sharpened blade with a look. This is mine. You can’t do anything about it, you can’t steal it. This pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and as long as I breathe, I will not give it up. Each line, like a flame, is my temple. My temple is a choice not to be like them not to join the crowd not to play on the string these are wounds in the soul that are not visible in the frame this is a fight without gloves for an idea do not lock mine this is a flow that goes to the cut without autotune without masks without unnecessary forest every slot is made of fire you did not understand me I am like the world without a day this is not just a rhyme this is the meaning a canopy is a nail silence this is an exit and stress these are tears and anger that turned into blood this is the cry of a generation that did not obey this is mine You can’t take away, you can’t break, you can’t burn my voice, like a pulse. It goes to meet. This is mine. Everything that was suffered was taken. My word is like the truth, a sharpened blade of a gaze. This is mine. You can’t do anything, you can’t steal it. This is pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and while I breathe, I will not give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. The temple is mine. While my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I will not ask, I will not sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like a dream. As if I am stuck between was and where. Time goes by, but I do not know where. The world is not my enemy, but it does not offer. The heart beats like a banned watch. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like my last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. I am zen with bada inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look, if you hear, do not turn away . We are the same charge. Those who are silent know the value of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in two. Every light has its shadow. Every day has its night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like my last breath. But as long as I breathe, I will not retreat. Unchanged but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. Without this truth inside. Let them not find me, but if you look, if you are silent, then you breathe. If you walk, then you are alive. And the name. It will still be erased. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence. I swim after the question. Dust falls on my shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by the light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I myself walked barefoot on glass. Did not give in to the games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void. But I listened to my eye. It whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my elder brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. There is no point in running in this vanity. We live to lie in the dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between the ashes and the voice, my path is at random. I got lost more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it fades, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If everything around is fading, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one who hides the inner darkness under a blanket, smiling outwardly, rotting from within. There are so many who have not been inside for a long time. Everyone is running for an answer, but they do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when you are on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but inside me. I whisper to the heavens, but I am silent to the people nearby, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have lost myself more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the ending. If the surroundings are fading, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is a contrast. If you hear, it means you’re alive. If it hurts, it means you haven’t forgotten the path. And while the eye inside hasn’t gone out, you’re a light even in the ashes. Even now I’ve seen time, how it tears you clean, how boys burn up, not having time to say: “Forgive me.” Concrete is silent, it knows more than prophets. My trace has frozen on it, like blood on a sleeve near a line. Here, every day is like a shot in the soul without a sight. Wings don’t save you here, if your heart is made of metal. An old man on a bench silently smokes a cigarette. He was a hero until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death, not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in a five, which carries away without maples. A boy with a knife in his pocket. Not a gangster, he’s scared, but if the walls press, he’ll cut your hand. We don’t live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where the years are silent. Here, every step is like the final eye. But even those don’t remember, who’s in this dusty fight. Moose. I don’t write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul is in words, like poison sewn into a blade. Whoever wants eternity, it’s not in the hall or at the top, but in the eyes of those who haven’t sold themselves wholesale. I remember the yard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they’re gone. Only photos remain in an old folder. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on a show-off, and someone rose like a phoenix with blood on their lips. We weren’t looking for God, he was looking for us under a bookmark, looking through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is nearby. We’re just strangers in it. We don’t live. We’re waiting for the moment to become a legend. Eternity is behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step is like a final chord. But even those don’t remember, who’s in this dusty fight. Lord, I’m not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style, like a knife, does not cut the air, only the truth on the blade of balance between light and melancholy, my soul is not sold, it left with the fighter. We are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but each carries in the heart the power of eternal rebellion. And let them not believe, we have long been immortal. In each verse, the cry of those who are long gone. Do not look for me in the charts, my truth is not there. I am the street, Where there are glances instead of likes. My rap is not for glory, but to leave a memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul, and you will understand without words. My path is like a burden, my cross is like a cat. I am in the block where concrete slabs whisper, where forgive. It is rare, like light in orbit, where guys rot for past mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was with them there, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where a knife, a pin, no shot rules. And whoever survived, he soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and spurts. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. All is forgiven in heaven, but here from under the soles, where children are buried under their mothers, it is sickening. When you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends like machine guns in battle. Everyone is like a brother, but in the finals, shovels. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith, if God turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles to reason. Here you can not be alive without leaving behind the biscuit, where forgiveness is. It is not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. Come on, my scars. Not just a story of the body. These are chapters from books where the soul went numb. I went through hell, but it did not forgive. Remained in debt to memory. The rear here does not cry. They laugh in the face of agony, they survive. Who will be the first to go for irony, who will betray completely, who will throw off the balance. But forgive me, you are ridiculous, brother, everyone is dangerous here. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent. I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. Do not ask me to be what I was not. My past is coals. In my soul there are only ashes , no one with a white crown will come for me. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayers, as my brothers left. Ashes to ashes, but with pride in every collapse. Do not wait for my tears, do not believe in atonement. I left in this marriage. Without hope for forgiveness. I am not forgiven, neither by will, nor by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I search for myself in these faces. I cry, but my soul is empty. And who am I for a world where only concrete reigns? Where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I am alone in the shadow? Where my demons are louder than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear. Who am I when they do not believe in me? My brothers. Who am I if I became a traitor to myself ? I am the one who fell and got up again. I am the one who carries his pain in his heart. Again and again, again and again. I am there, where emptiness meets light. The one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am a continuation of pain, but I found myself in it. I am not a hero and not an angel, I am simply alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those who were not heard. I am the truth that remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I will go with this. I am the one who fell and got up with me. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. I am again and again, again and again. I am where emptiness meets light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. Yes, again and again, again and again. Yes, in every step, in every breath, in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear as long as my heart burns. I am me and my path speaks. ا In old courtyards, where the asphalt is like a book, every hole is a story of pain, but somewhere in the drops, on the windows are the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light, in my mother’s words: “Don’t freeze, get dressed.” In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there, behind the scenes of our tomorrow. In ripe cherries, in the silence of the passages. In the way we love in any weather. He is in every step, when you go nowhere, and everything inside whispers: “Live”, despite God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky, and we are both not broken. He is not in the icons, he is in the cigarettes. In those that we share in the ghetto in the morning, in small hopes, in a cold entrance, in each one he is still alive. And in every unflattery he is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In a girl who walks barefoot through the train station, there God is not in gilding, but in her fatigue. In your thoughts, in your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in a role. Even when everyone has left and you are at zero. Open the window, brother. He is nearby, in the darkness of God you can’t see, but he is behind the back of a passerby’s gaze, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I sense him when I die. But I still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky. And we are both not broken. You will say: “I do not believe.” I will say: “It does not matter.” God is not a form, not a court, not a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not be. He is in every rhyme that I put here. You do not sleep either? Too many questions, huh? And the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen. Where does honor end, and profit begin. If time heals, why is it burned out inside? Why are words like a blade, but you did not hear them? And why, when you love, do they only strangle more? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for them so much? Why do lies warm us, like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus? Even if the body is in themes, how much is conscience worth in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in a braga? Why do children from the street grow up faster? And why do they put you in the cold for a word? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, can you hear? The silence is also loud. Questions about why there is not always honor on shoulder straps? Why does the truth immediately give you a slap on the neck? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness, and who is in the law, if everyone is afraid of the truth, why is the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t you bring back your mother’s voice in childhood? And why are we silent when the heart cracks? If there is meaning, where can you look for it in this noise? Why is loneliness like in the noise? Why, when you are alone in a dead end and how many times has your soul screamed in a bottle? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer if everything has already been sold? Brother, can you hear? The silence is also loud. questions where is that paradise that they shout about from the minor. Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you are from the street, then who are you in life? If you are silent, it means you have sold out for your principles. Why is it that when you die, only then is everyone close by? Why do I love later than I should? There are no answers and maybe there never will be. But if you are still here, you are not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like a code of nauga. There is no photoshop in this, no cheap themes. Here the words are like a sharp knife. They will not leave problems. In the neighborhood they say, like, a dangerous type, but I just see falsehood where you hear a beat, I do not write for trends. I do not need hype. There is truth in my lines, in Skype in the lines. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent, then remained faceless. This is a street without light, but I see a track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my talisman. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they stand in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word nave gold from pulberig. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart the threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My language is a gun, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in a movie frame. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still. How many faces I have seen that fell into lies, and I stood on the truth, even if not in power. The heart is cold, like February ice. But the soul burns, as if in a cage it is about to take off. You read about Gucci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces did not sell the soul. Not for a feat, not for cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Each syllable is a trace, like a boot on a tile. This is not commerce, brother. This is male. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they are put in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where according to the word nave gold from the bullets of the shore. I write in Russian here everything is clear, brother. This is the voice of those who are silent. But in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a pistol, I take care of it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts like a cigarette, that to ash. I am not a fashionable author. I am like a judge in the darkness, my word is my law. And I write about myself. I am the day from the lantern, where there is no one, there I am. And do you hear me? Hardly. Silence, my most honest interlocutor. Emptiness at night again. There is no we, no yes left here. The city is buzzing, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world arranged a bo for me. I look at the sky, as if at a black screen. There is no ending, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, like us. No matter how much you call, it would be the same. The bench creaks under me, like conscience. I am a reflection of the story in this darkness. All conversations, like eh concrete, I am to myself and a chain of wills. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I don’t warm anyone. I would like smoke in the sky. But it’s too late . The wind whispers my name in the yard. I’m always alone. This is my choice or my sentence, no matter how much I shout into the void. Only the yard hears, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I’m drowning, the world is growing paler. They wanted to understand, but they couldn’t. They are open. I’m like a city of dust. Every step is like against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain for me. People are like frames on a broken screen, they flashed, disappeared, leaving scars. I ask for neither love nor peace. It’s enough for me to be alive without heroes. I’m always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I don’t warm anyone. I would like smoke in the sky. But it’s too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I’m always alone. This is my choice or my sentence. No matter how much I shout into the void. Only the courtyards hear, people nearby, but they have mustaches in their eyes. And I walk along it, as if it were my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It doesn’t matter, I’m used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I don’t write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time, an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. My word is a machine gun, the rhythm is a stream of lights. I didn’t play heroes, but kept the balance, when the streets whispered further. This is your chance. All my lines are like a challenge to the system. Each truth is a bomb that tears a million voices on the stage. But the truth is in one. I don’t pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rhyme is like a knife on glass. I didn’t come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the kings of carrion console parts. I walked the tightrope, not looking down. Every line is my life motto. On the beats as on the field, I am a fighter without count. My verses are like the truth, bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in the rhythm. I hit the chest of the pohi, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rhythm is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes. I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not for the sake of. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it firmly. As long as the heart beats, I live indefinitely. Indefinitely indefinitely indefinitely. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You are looking for salvation, it is in my lines. I turn pain into music for the living. Forget about the format. I break the mold. My tracks are like dreams, but without the veil. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. It’s true. You can’t buy it, no matter how you spin it. This is not just rap, this is the last word. I’m here to light it up, not to be ready. Every line is like a point-blank shot, I was born to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I’ll leave behind the lines. They contain the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I’m not trendy, I’m timeless like ashes in the wind. But my voice will live on, even if I die. Listen with your soul. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. Against the backdrop of the streets, concrete and melancholy. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent, dad was drinking. But I became my own, I became like metal. Everyone says: “Be like everyone else, but why, if all these scars are in the system? I tried to be right, there was emptiness. Now in every verse there is my anger and dream. Micro, my torch. Rhymes like an explosion. I write as if this is my last stroke. Night in the area, quiet and sirens. We are the generation of a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, but simply erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I’m at home in this track. Where is my success? It’s in a notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in problems and salt? Where is my faith on the cops’ backs? But even in hell I hold my own. How many of us are here, who of us is alive? Who didn’t give up when the world screamed live? Where is the love in these eyes without fire? You won’t understand if you weren’t like me. I fly through the beat like a bullet in the skull. Through the dirt and concrete I hear trust. This is the street back to TikTok and not dreams. This is where tears in the boys’ eyes are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If your heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can play. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I feel at home in this track. I’m not a star, I’m not a blogger, not a genius. I’m just the voice of the ghetto on stage, no matter how much pain there is inside. I rhyme to live, just like you. Listen, I don’t know where you’ll be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is the path. Keep it inside. Listen, don’t be the one who screams, but the one who hears. Truth can be purer in silence. Look into the eyes of those who are next to you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent in truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but I get up with a thought to fly. And remember, do not be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like a light in the depths, I will be like a voice in the darkness, I will not be a shadow, but an essence. Even when I forget everything. I will. I will , I promise I will. Do not look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a lock. Do not hide it in vain. He who truly loves always returns himself. Believe, but not blindly, love, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If suddenly it becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you, and the fire is you too. Appreciate those who are near not later, but in the moment. Life is handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that it breathes openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through the ice, I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire. I will be and will not disappear later. I will . I will. I promise I will. We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok. The real world is like in an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone. In the world, we have forgotten how to live without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without showing off and showcases. This verse is for those who are silent. burns. Our mothers pray that we do not get lost, and we are in the algorithms that broke us. Can you hear my beat? This is a heart in wires. Too loud inside to remain in the shadows. We are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if this is how it should be. We live online. And in the eyes there is only noise, we disappear into the heart offline, but the soul screams like a chapter. Where to find your paradise? If the world is clicks of words, I saw children who do not know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise on the story here, bro. We are losing our roots. After all, we value untruth, but what we form. These filters are like masks on scars. In the photos we are alive, but in life there is drama. We try to look better than we are. But happiness is not a pixel, but who is here next to us. My lines are like a knife, cutting through the fog. I am not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us on the stream. But if you feel pain, know that you are not alone. And even if you are lost, the world inside you is not a demo version. Look at all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. But we are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if this is how it should be. We live online, and in our eyes there is only noise, we disappear into the heart. Offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, it is not just a sound, it is a cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds. There is a way out. It is inside, not in the feed in you. How love dies not with a cry, but with a whisper in rooms with a booming echo. First with breath, then with a phone, then with nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if in debt you looked out the window. I will run into myself. There is nothing left, forgive me, there is nothing left, I love. Only you know, I will play with later him in the ice. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times where you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two, but the more you breathed, the faster it went. I tried to understand where the rip goes wrong, where the music and feelings went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall, but in the walls I also stayed with you. You are like a song without words. I am like a beat without movement. We parted in the corners, like the fall of overthrow. We did not burn out at once, but this is more important. Love dies when no one hurts more. How love dies, not with a shot, but with rain on glass, where there are no more of us. Like a silent train station without a ticket office, like a sunset that says goodbye, without saying wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life, not with scandals, like a cup broken in a wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am already unloved. I remember your gaze, like a tired February. You were looking for spring, but brought only sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I’m angry. You were tired of hoping that I would change. I smoked by the window, as if in this salvation. But you can’t hide a broken movement in the smoke. You were lying in bed not next to each other, but as if behind a curtain in another parallel. We quietly left, just returned tickets to the movie, where we were the finale of the film. Register friends, just dust on the glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness, you are not a victim. We just did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, but in its silence you can still hear the hour. How love dies not by death, nor by thunder, but by steps in others with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on a hand. Not mine, but for you. How love dies without adornments. Just in a world where time erases space. And I’m not yours anymore, and you’re not mine. But in our silence, everything is still Bolzheva. How love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. How are you? In the emptiness without goodbyes, without drama, without words, that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but it has become crooked. The lines of fates and empty glances. Brother, I see them, I dream of them alive. Shadows on the walls, like a memory of pain. I’m not running, I’m standing at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but lava inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet. I shoot out of shape. The truth burned my fingers like a flame on a house, but I did not burn out. I became her warrior. Not for the air, not for distribution. This is my path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric current under the shoulder blades. But I didn’t lose my nerve, I became strong as a fact. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost yourself in the night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not bother me. This is a new day. All your screams do not heal wounds. All this hate has become like mantras for me. Quieter at the start, I explode at the finish. I am not in pursuit, I myself am already a virus. Years flow through my veins like here, but I am not frozen. I have become like foam. We are crushed from above, but we are on the rise. Dust on the crosses, medals in the album. You wanted rap, get what you deserve. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a beard. I am not one of those who lose phase. My verse shot the future at once. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I do not live for the hype of stories. My intellect is my territory. Each of my words is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It is you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase the shoulder. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not bother me. This is a new day. Oh, oh, the light falls, I stand under it. I am not a saint, but I am not alone. The flame inside, I need smoke. To become yourself, you must become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up for ourselves. Respect. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved themselves when they were drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not shout at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on the chest? Who was on the run from himself in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive? Who changed cities, but did not run away from pain? Who built himself not according to fashion, but according to will. Who took the microphone when there was a storm in the heart? Who carried rhymes, as if bullets in the forehead? Who was without a chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in the fruit? Who if thunder? Who if all this is who is left when everyone is gone? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who if you are a brother? Who if all this is who is left when everyone is gone? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though he was falling by morning. Who was homeless in a stranger’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when pain is like God? Who tells the truth when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond the edge, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn away later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but was resurrected without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Who, if you are a brother, who, if all this? Who? Who is left when everyone has left? Who lives without losing themselves inside? Who are you when the lights go out and no one calls? When everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who is the grand? I go to the end, even if it is dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass, my thoughts, like a blade, cut knives. My tracks are not hits. This is a cry from the soul. Thousands of faces and not a single one of my own. I was looking for at least someone and found them. Only about her, every step is like ice. Emptiness beneath me. But I believe in purity for pain. I did not build palaces, I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there has long been no spring. But I believe in the fire that remained in my eyes. And I go to the end. Even I will follow to the end, without looking back. Let not water flow through my veins, but passion. Let everything be broken. Dust is my crossroads. But I believe through the darkness. You can break out into the air. I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired. But while I write, I am not afraid. Silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway trains. But I chose to go. Even if to be yes. My lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. Each weaves as an answer to those who did not notice. I am not an angel and not a chatterbox. I am only the one who is tired, but did not lie down, did not fall. I did not lie to myself. This is the main thing. I am in hell in rhythm, but with fire. What else will not perish in this city? Shadows replace faces in this heart, like ice, but it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and am silent, but I live. I will go to the end without looking back. Let it not be water that crowns, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust. This is my crossroads, but I believe through the darkness. It is possible to break into the air, I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. Ah, ah . People break down in silence, like children growing on a concrete wall, like Teri’s mothers waiting, but not hearing the bell, and memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending. We change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone remains to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint, I fell myself, on my knees, to the bottom, under someone else’s psalm. But I rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are dots in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it’s important how much is in the account, but it’s important who cries when you go into the void. We were all light. We live in it, love, lose. We leave and are together again, where the pain of happiness is not enemies, but brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the point. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken gut. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies. It is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain, through dreams through the media, we run for meaning, losing feelings. As if the soul is just a device. But I will try to live one day in warmth. Not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. All dust is light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where pain is happiness, not enemies, brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer. One path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, not a tear, no trouble. We are part of one river that flows through the worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be human is the truth out loud. Everything will return good and evil. breath. You are part of the universe not a body, but a glow. And let everything pass, as this track will pass. A trace will remain, if there was light in it. In this smoke the night dissolves, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am empty in the city. In the area everything is in a circle, guys, concrete with plin. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I have not drunk spicy wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. It was my doping. Now even in other people’s clothes you look like a copy. The heart in compression presses like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. I am filled with neither alcohol nor grass. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit my rights. I’m in the hood, but not a gufty, not a saint. You’re like a tolerancer, at first it gets you high, then it doesn’t get you. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You’re my weakness, my antidote. The transvestite goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But your name still sounds in my head. I fade like a lamp in an empty entryway. You’re not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold, concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. You rode on the hype, and on your thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, in headphones. Silence. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played at love, and I lived in it without excess. In the area, everything is still wind, balcony. You won’t come back, but I don’t call for reason. My world is gray asphalt and beats. You are like a filter on the Internet. Everything is beautiful, but not you. How many fakes, I miss, how much pain. Forgive me, you are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I do not hold a grudge, I just do not believe anymore. You are like a bullet in the chamber, you killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidoran, the light goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But in my head your name still sounds. I fade away like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback in a cassette. I wish you freedom, the one that is not allowed in a photo. And so that you do not hide from the truth in other people’s arms. I am like a shadow, and you are like a lighthouse. Once you saved, now not so. I do not need light, I have long been in the dark. I do not call God, he was not in me. The world is like a noose, and I am in it on the cheek. I am writing this verse as if I am saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother was squeezing my veins? When my brother was leaving with no chance for change, when the city was screaming, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I was looking for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles block the sermon, like I was shot. I was looking for him in myself, but found only silence that burns from within, as if I were pouring on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I am my own cross. On the shoulders of unbelief, and concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write an ending here. Children die here so that someone would be silent. Where was God when there was a burning inside? When days are night, when there are seeds in the shadows, I don’t swear by it and don’t ask heaven. I just read until a tear falls. Yes. Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind your back, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself? The only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist, I am a survivor in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh, when I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon in war. Do you hear the sound? It is not just a beat, it is the crispness of a dream that left without protection. I am not in the top, but in the hearts of those who dance with the shadow, and not with likes for success. Where was God when I burned inside? When days go night, when I pray in the shadow, I do not swear and do not ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. A tear. If you feel, then you are alive. It means that rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I am not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I am just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just for eating, it is for living. People go here when everything collapses. Someone cries, someone is silent. The kitchen will not return. In the kitchen, in the kitchen, in the kitchen, where time is in both of us, like in wounds. We sit at night, confession on the sofas, like jury tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. The ashtray is full, thoughts with blood. From childhood we learned not to believe in the future. With God, dreams smoke here, not letting light in the window. The neighbor from the fourth third term, like a prisoner. The salt has crumbled, with it fate. You should have seen how my brother left for nowhere in February. We do not cry, our eyes are just tired. The word love here was replaced with fallen. In the kitchen in the tender Khrushchevs, where the storage of dreams and echoes, scattered salt of the road and milk on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been different, but everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is law, but the soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance does not hear. In every teapot there is a scream, in every look there is a protest. Shoes are not taken off, which means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. Marriages and wars are decided in the kitchen, and in a mug with a crack there is a whole homeland. My paradise passed here, they hang by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come to the kitchen. Everything is like last year. In the kitchen in careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams for descendants, paths of scattered salt and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been good. Everything could have been good, but it couldn’t. In the kitchen we lived as if it were our last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain people. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? You remember. I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a finale with a happy ending here. Here, everyone in armor has decorated their minds with rap. I’m not in trend, I’m outside. My lines are not just phrases, they are bullets in time. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where there is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder behind the scenes, it is heard through millions. Only just. The truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this essence is not vanity. I have not been sold, I have not forgotten. So I am alive. So I am alive. I am not a phantom from TikTok. I am a cat on rusty concrete. My heart beats under Norsen, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I understood what the essence is. Rap is not flex and non-chain. This is pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance, reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples. In the one who can do everything in himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are the chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot, but underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, not in trends, not in hit parades. I am in the eyes of the guys who dreams of being near. I am in mistakes, falls, in every broken day I rise like dawn and breathe in fire. Only truth is on the beat. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this essence is not vanity. I am not sold, not forgotten. So, alive. So, alive. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light, when the eyes are in smoke? Where is up, if I myself do not understand? We build days from emptiness and scream. How much longer to be silent, when the soul is great? I see people with masks on all their faces, but behind the smile there are wounds to me and fairy tales. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday, but tramples the good, to get out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are handed over to the scrap heap under a new bow, where love is like a product on a shelf in the network, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the border between lies and fear, where is the soul, what you can’t buy, fill it with sugar. We are in an era where feeling is weakness. And honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through, but the walls muffle the truth, so as not to break. Silence is a friend of lies, it is in fashion, but I go forward, on the edge of not in code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They cannot be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it is dark, the light is not outside. The light is inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold soul? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, as long as you are not shadows, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, as long as you are not shadows, not dust, but fate. If you hear, it is not silent, you are not alone, and I am not in the shadow. Light in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it is in you. Time passes, like a shadow behind your back. And we still stand, as if life is building it. Those who made noise, have long been out of the ranks. I am still here, on the old edge. In the photo in the album Black and White Quarter, where it smelled of concrete, ani digital signal. There instead of likes there were cries of stop. And everyone had someone else under their shirt. Bars without neon, tobacco and concrete. Beats from a cassette tape again iPhone. Those who were nearby, they went to the end. They disappeared like a pixel from a face. The clatter of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Who lived without masks? was doomed. Words were kept not for show, but so that the house did not sway under it. The era is gone, but remained in the eyes. Voices blazed in concrete courtyards . We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remained, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in veins, but in each of us. On the street scene, where you, my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like concrete icons. The texts on the walls are like an eternal tablet. We don’t need likes, we need a steel morality. This noise has gone in and partly, but you won’t replace the smell and strings for me. I’m still the same with my face by the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of the shop windows. The era has gone, like a ship without a mother. It took with it those who could remain silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With the era in our chests, but with a different border. This is not rap, this is an exhalation. This is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to feng shu, but like misery. Like misery. The era has gone, gone. We are still here. When I am gone, it will become quieter in the gateway. Where my voice was, only steps at an empty job, where I left my soul, now there is smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold strength in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say, “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear like a look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle above the cross where my name is carved with an uneven knife? Who will understand what burned inside me when the world lived and I walked through the darkness? Those words that I dropped into a notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the lines and thunderstorms. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom. What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple, when they will forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? I’m not afraid. I’ve already been down there, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak, like ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. in the evening on the pit to lie down veche Evening in the window neon trembles. I was born in a bat, to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who you became? But I am on fire among the ashes, as if a phoenix is tired.” Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. Who does not burn your path, but silently holds the frame. I dreamed I was falling from the roof, but the earth was erased by the night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I am not here for glory, I am here so as not to go crazy. While you like the photo, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight of silence. My language, I speak between the lines. You read, if you are not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear a volcano chest. I saw how faith breaks in people. In myself in words, how dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they beat with cold lead. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. Ini is a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on drafts of those burned stronger. Generation of phones and likes on photos of pain. But where are you, when I was drowning in emptiness, did not sweep? My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with a thread, but with a beaten rhythm. If the heart froze, then someone inside was killed. How many times I wrote, so as not to go off the rails, how many times I did not sleep, to stay in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of the era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept to stay in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of the era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. Mine are strict, like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete, in this eternal century. And while my voice is in the bits, I am alive, despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply one of them. How many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, as if everything is starting over. In the kitchen there is a kettle, smoke in the window and thoughts without an ending. Why do I run every day, where does the path lead? If I do not know who I am, how to choose anchors? There are hundreds of phrases on the phone, but not a single one is alive. All on business, all according to the mind. But someone with a head: “I don’t need applause, likes, fakes. I’d like to understand why I’m here before I get to heaven. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to lift me up with the end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever anymore, just until soon. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards, I lost myself 100 times. I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in snowstorms, I lost myself 100 times and found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The building of peaks, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. The goal is not the summit, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. At every turn, a new one should have. You either swim or drown, as you were. Fate is not a joke, it is a path without dubbing. You will not re-record a scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased a number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. And if suddenly I disappear, knowing, was not under contract, not on business, but for love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light. Even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood, I go where the light is, even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The goal is not the peaks, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice comes and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them all the judgment and my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. Oh, my silence. Oh, oh. Do you remember how we had conversations without words? Fingers tremble, as if there is a ringing in the heart. You are like midnight, where the stars burn for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of ancient books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain acquires meaning inside. I was nobody before you, zero in the wind, but you gave me fire even in the fierce January. While you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Among millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. My silence . You are like an exhalation, a moment where no one breathed. Between me and you there is no past. You are a scar like a chord that sounds between phrases. And each of your gestures is the meaning of jazz. I no longer search for why, for what and why you are my answer in this world. Where it is dark all around, Let everything change, collapse and melt. If you are near, this world does not die. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice comes and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them the whole essence is my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Even millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. It is not the light that penetrates me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. Let me sing my verse. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes. Demir is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am no one’s cry. It is not the light that penetrates me – it is just a beat. Gloriously my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in a daze without offense. Believe me, my verse goes to us. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. And today no one’s scream. The streets whisper to me again to cool down. But inside it’s like a fire, you can’t put out gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t count them. Too much love, but I didn’t survive here. Somewhere out there is my double, he follows in the footsteps, but burns bridges. He, like me, is only a ghost, smoke. He won’t say breathe. He doesn’t know spring. I trampled the day, like cigarette butts in the entrance. I was looking for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response, this world is like crap, or a verse, or a godmother. I believed the beat, it is more alive. than all places. This is my holy sin. To live without a goal and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain, without dreams. This is my black rain, drops of pain without dreams. It is not the light that breaks through me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a trace. But my steepe goes through my veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call, I am no one’s today . It is not the light that curses me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a trace. My verse goes through my veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am no one’s cry. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear. Somewhere a brother on the corner in his eyes. Ashes. Mom prays for us, but we are drowning in business. This beat is like a lantern that leads through the courtyards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Do not hold any grudges or guilt against me. I just was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. And let the whisper from the speakers remind me of my style. In these lines, all the pain without prefixes. If we suddenly meet, do not look into my dreams. I will remain a beat. I will dissolve until spring. I will dissolve until spring. It is not the light that breaks through me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. But my verse goes through my veins . Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just resentment. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without a record. But my verse goes through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a cry. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am an accidental cry. Are you ready to hear what sounds in the silence? It’s at the end. Listen, I’m not looking for likes. It’s important to me that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I saw finals on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last on the eve of bets and scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I’m learning not to fall, even when everyone around has fallen. How many times have you betrayed me, I didn’t count, I counted Shagir hugs with a knife, smiles, as if I were a friend, a product of the street of pain, where a word is like a shot in a pile, for the truth you pay with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What’s in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what’s in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone, what’s in the end, when money burns your peace? What’s in the end? Tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? I’m not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night is like the last battle. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like razors shine. The city changes its faces, but the concrete stays with me. Here you can be anyone until you stand in battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd, and those who were below, go like tanks through the darkness and everyday life. I did not sell my style for trends, did not buy myself a role. My rhythms are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path. Not a game. There is no button to start again. So either you burn like fire, or go out like a lamp in the dirt. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me what is in the end. What is in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but you will be forgotten on Monday. You can buy everything, but you will not buy more. So tell me honestly, what is in the end. I am not an idol, I am a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals, how knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who are silent are often closer to the soul. I am in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it does not lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when everything burns, where will you be? What in the end, when the smoke clears, then everyone will leave, when will you be alone? Tell me what is in the end. What is in the end? How much does it take to understand that it is not eternal. How many times to fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, not for this. The packaging shines, but the content is stuffy. What do we waste our days on? Why do we live like this if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me what is more important: to be or to seem. Would you remain yourself if everything broke. I have seen heaps of people who were burning with fire and then sold their souls for likes and a home. Why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-offs and guilt? How much does silence cost, to be honest, inside, where is the line of good and when to cross? Live important. Love the unimportant, the faithful. Rejoice in the little things, listen to the smart. Speak sincerely. And take care of the weak. Live prano. Only important, only important. Only important. Only important. Only important, what is success if you are alone, if you have everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks? Where is the path that you would call true? After all, we are looking for answers not where the question is. We burn bridges where love could be. Why do we accumulate grievances that eat away inside? Instead of forgiveness, we keep stones in our chests. And when the last breath is closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? victories or how he hugged his brother, how he said thank you when there were no words, as if he were nearby when the roof was collapsing, live important things, those that are not needed, love the faithful, rejoice in little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only important things. Only important things. Only important things. Only important things. Only important things. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and you are just afraid to admit that what is important is nearby, but it is not visible. It is not too late, while you hear, different live correctly. Shadows on the walls. A murky ribbon in a world where truth is only an experiment. Spikan. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like a blade, night on a target. The city makes noise on the air like a demon. They judge for the truth. They are silent like in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, the soul on the glass. An exit without an exit, running on a loop. People go out like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead not from pain. Press out. A word to the heart, like a crowbar closer. Those who were already alive in the black silence, those who were faithful, sold out and left. Neither Balik nor faith will save us here. A veil on our eyes, like a chimera. We are running to nowhere in these tracks and schemes. Light at the end, only peace in the tunnels. Everything around is Belena, brother. I see right through. Those who were with us for a day disappear like a guest in this world. Without a bottom, where there is no salvation, a cane. We go to the end, albeit slowly, a veil of vrock, but the burn is darkness, it rewrote its route, cut the trap. You and I are not alone. Even if our flag is torn by the wind, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, you will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, and not just a bol raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. Didn’t take a handout, didn’t jump into the route, gave a beat, as if it were a parachute. Gru behind my back, but I didn’t give up the route, so that to the sky, even though wings don’t grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the dark. Time does not heal. It just devours those, those who were looking for meaning drowned in emptiness, while others swim swim at the bottom. I’m not a savior, I’m just a fire that burns in silence. Under the yoke of pursuit. There is no forgiveness here, here is about the essence of the damage. My lines, like the truth, in tone. Everything around is a veil, but I see myself. And whoever was near yesterday, left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But under us is concrete, and we hold our tone. Everything around is a veil, but y orbu this cat. I do not believe in a game where there is one turn. We were born in fire, water will not save. If you yourself have not become light, then it is not time. But through it I see the way. Even if the whole world is a court, I go like many bodies in which there are no souls. With whom the night is like a movie, but the morning is like ink. Smeared truth on the pillow. Where were you nobody she toy? You go out at night, leaving a ringing on the door. Besms without take care of yourself without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. There are so many faces, you can’t even remember their names. It’s empty for tomorrow, as if someone turned off the background. You’re searching again, but not for that. You want a look to penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary. With whom you wake up and the whole world is good, with whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom the night is simply wordless, but there are few with whom silence is like blood. With whom there is no game, no pose, no pose with whomever you want. Tomorrow without falsehood and fear you can live with anyone, as if together. Drink coffee in the morning, argue even 100, go to the south, take pictures for the feed, put rings, but live by inertia. You can be, but not love, listen, but not hear the scream inside. Everything according to the rules of common accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? It is already harder to dream here, so that the snow fox with her initial, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple with her. There are many with whom you can live as it should be, but few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom not in the law, but in conscience pure, with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But few with whom a blizzard is not scary, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter, with whom even the past is sweeter. And here it is the whole essence in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who at dawn, who stays, even if there is pain, with whom you want tomorrow, not by role, but with soul. This is how we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, we lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. There are many with whom to lie. Few with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, and beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is a voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse like a shot from the couch. This is what inside cannot be bought for rubles. This is not hype for an hour, but a style for life. I do not expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I do not pretend that everything is behind me. Each text is like a cartridge, it flies into the target. I do not lie. I am not an actor, not a shadow and a shadow. This is mine. You can not take away, nor break, nor burn. My voice is like a pulse, it goes to meet. This is my everything, taken through suffering. My word, like the truth, a sharpened blade with a look. It’s mine. Can’t be helped, can’t be stolen. Eh, the pain in my voice, that was learning to scream. It’s mine, and while I breathe, I won’t give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. My temple, my temple. Moko’s choice is not to be like them. Not to join the crowd, not to play on the string, these are wounds in the soul that are not visible on camera. This is a fight without gloves. Don’t steal for an idea. Mine is the flow that goes on the cut. Without autotune, without masks, without unnecessary forest. Each word is like a sip from the fire. You didn’t understand me. I’m like a world without a day. It’s not just a rhythm, it’s a meaning canopy. It’s a nail, silence. It’s an exit and stress. These are tears and anger that turned into blood. It’s a scream. Generations that did not submit. Woah! It’s mine. You can’t take away, break, or burn my voice like a pulse. He comes to meet me. This is mine. Everything that was suffered, taken. My word as the truth. The sharpened blade of a glance. This is mine. Can’t be helped, can’t be stolen. Eh, the pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine. And as long as I breathe, I will not give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. My temple is mine. As long as my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I will not ask, I will not sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like in a dream, as if stuck between what was and where. Time goes by, but I don’t know where. Mirna is not an enemy, but he does not offer it either. The heart beats like a forbidden watch. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. Yese with a bada inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look, if you hear, do not turn away. We are the same this charge. Those who are silent know the value of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in half. Each light is entitled to a shadow. Each day has its own night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last breath. But as long as I breathe, I will not retreat on my heels. Unchanged but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look without the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I follow. If you are silent, it means you are breathing. If you walk, it means you are alive. And the name? It will be erased anyway. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence, I swim after the question. Dust falls on shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I myself walked barefoot on glass. Did not give in to games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void, but I listened to my eye. It whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my older brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks, like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. In this vanity there is no point in running. We live to lie in the dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between the ashes and the voice my path is at random. I have lost myself more than once, but I rose without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not give up on myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If everything around is fading, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one under the blanket. Hides the inner darkness, smiling outwardly, rotting from the inside. There are so many who have not been inside for a long time. Everyone is running for an answer, but they do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when you are on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but in me. I whisper to the skies, but I am silent to the people around me, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have been lost more than once, but I rose without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If everything around is fading, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. If you hear, then you live. If it hurts, then you have not forgotten the path. And while the eye inside you cannot extinguish the light even in the ashes. Even now I have seen time, how it tears into pieces, how boys burn, not having time to say: “Forgive me.” Concrete is silent. It knows more than the prophets. My trace froze on it, like blood, on the sleeve near the line. Here, every day is like a shot into the soul without a sight. Here, wings do not save, if the heart is made of metal. An old man on a bench silently smokes a cigarette. He was a hero, until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in a five, which takes away without maples. A boy with a knife in his pocket. Not a gangster, he is scared, but if the walls press, he will cut his hand. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where the years are silent, here every step is like a final eye. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lo, I do not write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul is in words, like poison was sewn into a blade. Whoever wants eternity, it is not in the hall and not in the top, but in the eyes of those who did not sell themselves wholesale. I remember the yard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they are gone. Only photos in an old folder remain. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on a show, and someone rose like a phoenix, with blood on their lips. We did not look for God, he looked for us under the bookmark, looked through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is near. We are just strangers in it. We do not live. We are waiting for the moment, to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step seems to be the final chord. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lord, I am not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style, like a knife, does not cut the air, only the truth on the blade of balance between light and melancholy, my soul is not sold, it left with the fighter. We are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but each of us carries in our hearts the power of eternal rebellion. And let them not believe, we have long been immortal. In each verse, the cry of those who are long gone. Do not look for me in the charts. My truth is not there. I am the street, where instead of a like, there are glances. My rap is not for glory, but so that the memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame remains. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul, and you will understand without words. My path is like a load, my cross is like a cat. I am in the quarter where concrete slabs whisper, where forgiveness is a rarity, like light in orbit, where the guys rot for past mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was with them there, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where there is a knife, a back, no shot, but rules. And whoever survived, he is soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and spurts. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. Everything is forgiven in paradise, but here from under the sole, where children are buried under the sickening mother. And when you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am by the dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends like machine guns in battle. Each one is like a brother, but in the finals they are shovels. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith if God has turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles to my mind. You cannot be alive here without leaving behind a biscuit. Where is forgiveness? It is not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. Come on, my scars. Not just a history of the body. These are chapters from books where the soul went numb. I went through hell, but it did not forgive. I remained in debt to memory. The rear does not cry here. The agony laughs in the face and survives. Who will be the first to resort to irony? Who will betray completely, who will throw off the balance. But forgive me, you are ridiculous, brother, everyone is dangerous here. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is unfeigned fire. I live as I am according to the dark laws. And let the sky be silent. I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. Do not ask me to be what I was not. My past is coals. In my soul there are only ashes , no one will come for me with a white crown. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayers, as my brothers left. Ashes are ashes, but with pride in every collapse. Do not wait for my tears, do not believe in redemption. I left in this darkness. Without hope for forgiveness, I am not forgiven either by will or by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I search for myself in these faces. I cry my eyes out, but my soul is empty. And who am I for a world where only concrete reigns, where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I am alone in the dark? Where are my demons louder than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear. Who am I when they don’t believe in me? My brothers. Who am I if I became a traitor to myself? I am the one who fell and rose again. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Me again and again, again and again. I am where the emptiness meets the light. The one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am an extension of pain, but in it I found myself. I am not a hero and not an angel. I am simply alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those no one heard. I am the truth that remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I go with this. Oh, I am the one who fell and rose by me. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Me again and again, again and again. I am where the void meets the light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again. In every step, in every breath, in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear, as long as the heart burns. I am me and my path speaks Oh. You can’t see God, but I see him in old courtyards. Where the asphalt is like a book. Every hole is a story of pain. But somewhere in the drops, on the windows are the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light. In my mother’s words, don’t freeze, get dressed. In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there behind the scenes of our tomorrow. In ripe cherries, in the silence of passages. In how we love in any weather. He is in every step when you go nowhere, and everything inside whispers: “Live”, despite God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase wait, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. You can’t see God, but I smell him when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky, and we are both not broken. He is not in the icons, he is in the cigarettes. In those that we share in the morning on the getas, in small hopes, in a cold entrance. In each one he is still alive and in each unflattery. He is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In the girl who walks barefoot at the train station, there God is not in the gilding, but in her fatigue. In your thoughts, in your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in the role. Even when everyone has left and you are at zero. Open the window, brother. He is nearby in the darkness, in the cherub. God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him, when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky, and we are both not broken. You will say: “I do not believe.” I will say: “It does not matter.” God is not a form, nor a court, nor a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not be. He is in every rhyme that I put here. You do not sleep either? Too many questions, huh? And the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen. Where does honor end, and profit begin. If time heals, why is it burned out inside? Why are words like a blade, but you did not hear them? And why, when you love, do they only strangle more? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for them so much? Why do lies warm us, like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus? Even if the body is in themes, how much is conscience worth in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in a braga? Why do children from the street grow up faster? And why do they put you in the cold for speaking? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, can you hear? The silence is also loud. questions why is there not always honor on shoulder straps? Why do you get a slap on the neck for telling the truth? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness and who is in the law? If everyone is afraid of the truth, why is the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t you bring back your mother’s voice in childhood? And why are we silent when the heart cracks? If there is meaning, where can you look for it in this noise? Why is loneliness like in the noise? Why, when everything is you alone in a dead end and how many times has your soul screamed in a bottle? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, can you hear? The silence is also loud. questions where is that paradise that they shout about from the minaret. Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you are from the street, then who are you in life? If you are silent, it means that you have sold out for your principles. Why, when you die, is everyone nearby only then? Why do I love later than I should? There are no answers and maybe there never will be. But if you are still here, you are not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like a code at random. There is no Photoshop in this, no cheap themes. Here the words are like a sharp knife. They will not leave problems. In the neighborhood they say, like, a dangerous type, but I just see falsehood where you hear a beat, I do not write for trends. I do not need hype. There is truth in my lines, and in the lines of Skype. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent, then remained faceless. This is a street without light, but I see a track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my amulet. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they put them in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word nave gold from the bull’s bank. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a gun, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in a movie frame. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still. How many faces have I seen that fell into lies, and I stood on the truth, even if not in power. My heart is cold, like February ice. But my soul burns, as if in a cage it is about to take off. You read about Gucci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces did not sell my soul. Not for a feat, not for cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Each syllable is a trace, like from a boot on a tile. This is not commerce, bro. This is male. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they are put in the corner. Not a performance is a dirty route, where according to the word canopy gold from the banks of bullets. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a pistol, I cherish it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts, like a cigarette, that before ash. I am not a fashionable author. I am like a judge in the darkness, my word is my law. And I write about myself. I am the day from the lantern, where there is no one, there I am. And do you hear me? Hardly. Silence, my most honest interlocutor. Again the emptiness of the night. There is no we, nor Yes left here. The city is buzzing, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world arranged for me bo. I look at the sky, as if at a black screen. There is no ending, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, like us. No matter how much you call, it would be the same. The bench creaks under me, like conscience. In this darkness I am a reflection of the story. All conversations are like an echo in concrete. I am my own thief and a chain. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to throw smoke into the sky. But it is too late. The wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence, no matter how much I shout into the void. Only the yard hears. People are nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I tanuka the world is paler than all. They wanted to understand, but they could not. They are open. I am like a city of dust. Every step is against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain for me. People flashed like frames in a broken screen, the scars disappeared. I do not ask for love or peace. It is enough for me to be alive without heroes. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to throw smoke into the sky. But it is too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence. No matter how much you shout into the void. All you hear are the courtyards, the people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if it were my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It doesn’t matter. I’m used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I don’t write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time, an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. My word is a machine gun, the rhythm is a stream of lights. I didn’t play heroes, but kept the balance, when the streets whispered further. This is your chance. All my lines are like a challenge in the system. Each truth is a bomb that explodes on the stage. A million voices. But the truth is in one. I don’t pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rhyme is like a knife on glass. I didn’t come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the kings of carrion console themselves. I walked the tightrope, not looking down. Every line is my life motto. On the beats, as on the field, I am a fighter without count. My verses, like the truth, are bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in the rhythm. I hit the chest of the pohi, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rism is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes, I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not for the sake of favor. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it firmly. While the heart beats, I live indefinitely. Indefinitely. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You seek salvation, it is in my lines. I turn pain into music of the living. Don’t forget about the format. I break the patterns. My tracks are like dreams, but without a veil. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. It’s true. You can’t even buy it. Don’t spin it. This is not just rap. This is the last word. I’m here to light it up, not to be ready. Every line is like a point-blank shot. I came into the world to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I will leave behind lines. They contain the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I am not trendy, I am timeless like ashes in the wind. But my voice will live on, even if I die. Listen, Dyusha. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. Against the backdrop of the streets, concrete and melancholy. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent, dad drank, but I became my own, became like metal. Everyone says: “Be like everyone else, but why, if all these scars are in the system?” Tried to be right. There was emptiness. Now in every verse there is my anger and dream. My micro torch. I write rhymes like an explosion, as if this is my last stroke. The night in the neighborhood is quiet and sirens. We are the generation of a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time doesn’t heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I’m at home in this track. Where is my success? It’s in the notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in trouble and salt? Where is my faith? On the cops’ backs, but even in hell I hold my front. How many of us are here, who of us is alive? Who didn’t give up when the world was screaming? Where is the love in these eyes without fire? You won’t understand if you weren’t like me. I fly through the beat like a bullet in the skull. Through the dirt and concrete I hear trust. This is the street back to TikTok and not dreams. This is where tears in the boys’ eyes are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If your heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a pose on the edge, in the air. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I feel at home in this track. I’m not a star, I’m not a blogger, not a genius. I’m just the voice of a get on stage. No matter how much pain there is inside, I rhyme to live like you. Listen, I don’t know where you will be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is the path. Keep it inside. Listen, don’t be the one who screams, but the one who hears. Truth can be purer in silence. Look into the eyes of those who are next to you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent in truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but I get up with a thought to fly. And remember, do not be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like a light in the depths, I will be like a voice in the darkness, I will not be a shadow, but an essence. Even when I forget everything, I will be, I will be, I promise, I will. Do not look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a castle. Do not hide it in vain. He who truly loves always returns himself. Believe, but do not love blindly, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If suddenly it becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you. Fire is also you. Appreciate those who are near not later, but in the moment. Life is handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that it breathes openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through ice. I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire. And I will not disappear later . I will be. I promise I will be. ا We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok. The real world is like in an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone in the world we have forgotten how to live without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without show-offs and showcases. This verse is for those who are silent, but burn. Our mothers pray that we do not get lost, and we are in algorithms that broke us. Can you hear my beat? This is a heart in wires. Too loud inside to remain in the shadows. We are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if this is how it should be. We live online. And in the eyes only noises disappear in the heart offline, but the soul screams like a head. Where to find your paradise? If the world is clicks of words, I saw children who do not know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise on the story. Here, brother, we lose our roots. After all, we value untruth, and what we form these filters, like masks on scars. In the photos we are alive, but in life there is drama. We try to look better than we are, but happiness is not a pixel, but who is nearby here. My lines like a knife, cut the fog. I’m not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us on the stream. But if you feel pain, know that you are not alone. And even if you are lost, the world inside you is not a version of demo. Look at all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. But we are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online, and in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart. offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, this is not just a sound, this is the cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds. There is a way out. It is inside, not in the feed, in you. How love dies not with a scream, but with a whisper in rooms with a booming echo. First breath, then a phone, then nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if in debt you looked out the window. I will run into myself. There is nothing left, forgive me, there is nothing left, I love you. Just know, I will play with him in the ice later. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times where you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two, but the more I breathed, the faster the departure. I tried to understand where the rib gets lost, where from music and feeling went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall. But in the walls, too, I remained with you. You are like a song without words, I am like a beat without movement. We dispersed to the corners, like the fall of overthrow. We did not burn out at once, but this is more important. Love dies when no one hurts more. How love dies, not with a shot, but with rain on glass, where there are no more of us. Like a silent train station without a ticket office of people, like a sunset that says goodbye. Without saying wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life. Not with scandals, like a cup broken in the wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am no longer loved. I remember your look, like a tired February. You were looking for spring, but brought sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I am angry. You were tired of hoping that I would change. I smoked by the window, as if this was where I was saved. But you cannot hide a broken movement in smoke. You were lying in bed, not next to each other, but as if behind a curtain in another parallel we quietly left, simply returned our tickets. A film where we were the finale of a movie. Decks are not friends, just dust on the glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness, you are not a victim. We simply did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, the hour can still be heard in its silence. How love dies neither by death nor by thunder. But by steps in others, with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on a hand. Not mine, but to you. How love dies without reasons and without quarrels. Just in a world where time erases space. And I’m no longer yours, and you’re not mine. But in our silence the pain is still alive. How love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. And as in the emptiness without goodbyes, without drama, without words, so that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but in it the lines of fates have become crooked and the looks are empty. Brother, I see them, I dream of them alive. Shadows on the walls, like a memory of pain. I’m not running, I’m standing at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but lava inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet. I shoot out of shape. True, it burned my fingers like a flame on a house, but I did not burn out. I became her warrior. Not for the air, not for distribution. This is my path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric shock to the shoulder blades. But I didn’t give up. I became strong, like a fact. This is a new day. This is a new path. If you lost yourself in the night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not bother me. This is a new day. All your screams do not heal wounds. All this hate has become like mantras to me. Quiet. At the start I explode to the finish. I am not in pursuit, I myself am already a virus. Years flow through my veins like here, but I have not frozen. I have become like foam. We are pressed from above, but we are on the rise. Dust on the crosses, medals in the album. You wanted rap? Get what you deserve. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a beard. I am not one of those who loses phase. My verse is a shot into the future right away. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I do not live for the hype of history. My intellect is my territory. Each of my syllables is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day. This is a new path. If you have lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you have erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. It’s a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not stop me. It’s a new day. Oh, oh, the light falls, I stand under it. I’m not a saint, but I’m not alone. The flame inside, I need smoke. To become yourself, you have to become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up for ourselves. Respect. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved himself when he was drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not scream at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on his chest? Who was on the run from himself in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive. Who changed cities, but did not run away from pain. Who built themselves not by fashion, but by will. Who took the microphone when there was a storm in their heart? Who carried rhymes like bullets in the forehead? Who was without a chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in the fetus? Who if thunder Who if all this, who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing themselves inside? Who if you are a brother? Who if all this? Who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing themselves inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though he fell by morning. Who was homeless in someone else’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when there is pain, like GD? Who tells the truth when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond the edge, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn away later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but rose without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Who, if you are a brother, who, if all this? Who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who are you when the light goes out and no one calls? When everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who? Granஷ I go to the end, even if it is dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass. My thoughts, like a blade, cut knives in my tracks are not hits. This is a cry from the soul. I was looking for thousands of faces and not a single one of mine. At least someone was found only about him. Every step, as if on ice. Emptiness under me. But I believe in purity for pain. I did not build palaces. I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there has been no spring for a long time. But I believe in the fire that remains in my eyes. I go to the end, even I will follow through to the end, without looking back. Let it not be water that flows through my veins, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust, this is my crossroads, but I believe through the darkness. I can break into the air, I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway trains. But I chose to go even if, damn it. My lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. It seems like an answer to those who did not notice. I am not an angel and not an executioner. I am only the one who is tired, but did not lie down, did not fall. I did not lie to myself. This is the main thing in the rhythm in hell, but with fire that will not die yet. In this city, shadows replace faces in this heart, like ice. But it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and keep silent, but I live. I will go to the end, without looking back. Let it not be water that flows through us, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust. This is my crossroads, but I believe through the darkness. It is possible to break free. I will go into the air to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid. Silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. ا I have seen how people break down in silence, how children grow on a concrete wall, how mothers wait, but do not hear the bell. And memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending, we change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone stays to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint. I fell myself, on my knees, to the bottom, under someone else’s psalm, but rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are points in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it’s important how much is in the account, but it’s important who cries when you go into the void. All were light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave again in battle, where pain, happiness are not enemies and brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken inside. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies, it is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain through media dreams, we run for meaning, losing feelings, as if the soul is just a device. But I will try to live one day in warmth. Not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. All dust is the light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where the pain of happiness, not enemies, brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the point. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, neither tears nor troubles. We are part of one river that flows through worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be human, this is the truth. Out loud. Everything will return, good and evil and breath. We are part of the universe. Not a body, but radiance. And let everything pass, as this track will pass. A trace will remain, if there was light in it. In this smoke, the night dissolves, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am in an empty city. In the area, everything is in a circle, guys, concrete spleen. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I have not drunk spicy wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. It was my doping. Now even in someone else’s clothes you look like a copy. The heart in compression presses, like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. You are not filled with alcohol. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit my rights. I am in a hood, but not a gufty, not a saint. You are like a tolerant, at first it gets you high, then it doesn’t get you. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidote. The transvestite goes out, and I disappear, like smoke. Your name still sounds in my head. I fade, like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold, weedy plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. You rode on the hype, and on your thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, in headphones. Silence. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played at love, and I lived in it without excess. In the area, everything is still wind, balcony. You will not return, but I do not call reason. My world is gray asphalt and beaters. You are like a filter in an insheet, everything is beautiful, but not you. How many are false, I miss, how much pain in forgiveness. You are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I do not hold a grudge, I just do not believe anymore. You are like a cartridge in the chamber, you killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidote, the light goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But in my head your name still sounds. I fade away like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback in a cassette. I wish you freedom, the one that is not allowed in a photo. And so that you don’t hide from the truth in other people’s arms. I’m like a shadow, and you’re like a lighthouse. Once I saved, now it’s not so. I don’t need light, I’ve been in the dark for a long time. I don’t call God, he wasn’t in me. The world is like a noose, and I’m in it on my cheek. I’m writing this verse as if I’m saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother was squeezing my veins? When my brother was leaving without a chance for change, when the city was screaming, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I looked for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles block the sermon, like a shot. I looked for him in myself, but found only silence, that burns from within, as if I’m pouring it on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I’m my own cross. On the shoulders of unbelief, concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write an ending here. Children die here so that someone will be silent. Where was God when I was burning inside, when days are nights, when interrogations are in the shadows, I don’t swear by it and I don’t ask heaven. I just read until a tear falls. Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind you, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself. The only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist, I survived in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh, when I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon for war. Do you hear the sound? It’s not just a beat, This is the crispness of a dream that left without protection. I’m not in the top, but in the hearts of those who dance with a shadow, and not with likes for success. Where was God when I was burning inside? When days are demonic nights, when I don’t swear and don’t ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. A tear. If you feel, then you’re alive. It means that rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I’m not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I’m just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just for eating, it’s for living. People go here when everything collapses. Some cry, some are silent. They won’t return to the kitchen. In the kitchen, in the kitchen. In the kitchen, where time is in both of us like in wounds. We sit at night confessing on the couches. Like a jury drinking tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. The ashtray is full, thoughts are with blood. Since childhood we have learned not to believe in the afterlife with God. Here they smoke dreams, not letting in a single light. A neighbor from the fourth, third term, like a prisoner. The salt has crumbled, fate with it. You should have seen how my brother left for nowhere in February. We do not cry, our eyes are just tired. The word “love” has been replaced with “fallen” here. In the kitchen in the delicate Khrushchev-era buildings, where dreams and echoes are stored, the salt of the road is scattered and milk is on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been different. But everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is legal. The soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance does not hear. In every teapot there is a scream, in every look there is a protest. Shoes are not taken off, it means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. Marriages and wars are decided in the kitchen , and in the mug with a crack there is an entire homeland. My paradise passed here. And they hang by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come.” In the kitchen, everything is like last year. In the kitchen in careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where there is a repository of dreams for descendants, paths of scattered salt and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been good. Everything could have been good. But it couldn’t. In the kitchen, we lived as if it were our last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain people. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? You remember. ا I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a finale with a happy ending here. Here, everyone in armor has decorated their minds with rap. I’m not in trend, I’m outside. My lines are not just phrases, they are bullets in time. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where there is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder behind the scenes. It is heard through millions. Only just. Truth in trouble. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this is the essence of not vanity. I am not sold, not forgotten. So alive, so alive. I am not a phantom from TikTok. I am a cat on rusty concrete. The heart beats under narsentsova, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I understood what the essence is. Rap is not flex and non-chain. It is pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance, reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples in someone who can do everything in himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are the chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot, but underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, not in trends, not in the charts. I am in the eyes of the boys who dream of being near. I am in mistakes, falls, every broken day, but I get up like dawn and breathe in fire . Only truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My lines are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this is the essence, not vanity. I am not sold, not forgotten. So, I am alive. So, I am alive. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light when the eyes are in smoke? Where is the top? If I do not understand myself, we build days from emptiness and screams. How much longer to remain silent when the soul is great? I see people with masks on their faces, but behind the smile there are no wounds and fairy tales. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday. But tramples the good to get out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are scrapped for a new bow, where love is like a product on a shelf online, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light, where are those who have not sold their souls, where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not shadows, nor dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not shadows, nor dust, fate. Where is the line between lies and fear, where is the soul, that you can’t buy for a price list. We are in an era where feeling is weakness, and honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through, but the walls muffle the truth, so as not to break. Silence is a friend of lies. It is in fashion, but I go forward, on the edge, not in the code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They cannot be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it is dark, the light is not outside. The light has been inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are neither shadows nor dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are neither shadows nor dust, but fate. If you hear, don’t be silent, you’re not alone, and I’m not in the shadow. Shine in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it’s in you. Time is slipping away like a shadow behind us, and we’re still standing, as if life is building this. Those who made noise are long gone . I’m still here, on the old edge. In the photo in the album, a black-and-white block smelled of concrete, anital signal. There, instead of likes, there were cries of “Stop! And everyone had a different bar under their shirt without neon lights and concrete. Beats from a cassette tape again iPhone. Those who were nearby, they went to the end. They disappeared, like a pixel from a face. The clatter of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Those who lived without masks were doomed. They kept their word not for show, but so that the house did not sway under it. The era is gone, but the eyes remain. In concrete courtyards, lanterns in voices. We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remain, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in veins. But in each of us there is a street scene, where you are my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like concrete icons. Texts on the walls are like an eternal tablet. We do not need likes, we need a steel morality. Gone in part, this noise came, but you will not replace the smell and strings for me. I am still the same with a face at the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of the shop windows. The era has gone, like a ship without a mother. Took with it those who could remain silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With the era in our chests, but with a different border. This is not rap, this is an exhalation, this is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to feng shui, but like misfortune. Like misfortune. The era has gone, but we are still here. When I am gone, it will become quieter in the gateway, where my voice was, only steps at an empty job, where I left my soul. Now smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold strength in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say: “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, there is no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear, like look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple, when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle above the cross, where my name is carved with an uneven knife? Who will understand what burned inside me, when the world lived, and I walked through the darkness? Those words that I dropped into a notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the sterns and thunderstorms. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom. What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? In the temple yes The last candle burns when my name will be forgotten forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? I’m not afraid, I’ve already been down there, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak as ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. Evening The evening falls on the beat, it is not he who trembles in the window. I was born in the beat, to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a Kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who you became? But I am on fire among the ashes. As if the Phoenix is tired. Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. Who do not burn your path, but silently hold the frame. I dreamed that I was falling from the roof, but the earth is erased by night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I am not here for the glory, I am here so as not to go crazy. While you like the photo, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight of silence. My language, I speak between the lines, you read if you are not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear a volcano on their chests. I saw how faith breaks in people in themselves, in words, how dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they beat with cold lead. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. I am not a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on the drafts of those burned stronger. A generation of phones and likes on photos of pain. But where are you, when I was drowning in emptiness, did not sweep? My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with a thread, but with a beaten rhythm. If the heart froze, then someone inside is killed. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to remain in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to stay in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of the era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest.” This is my last frame. No takes, no editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete to this eternal century. And while my voice is in the bits, I am alive despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply one of them. How many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, as if everything is starting over. In the kitchen, a kettle, smoke in the window and thoughts without an ending. Why do I run every day, where the path leads, if I do not know who I am, how to choose anchors. There are hundreds of phrases on the phone, but not a single one is alive. All on business, all wisely. But someone with a head: “I do not need applause, likes, false hype. I wish I could understand why I’m here before I get to heaven. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to lift me up with an end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever only until soon. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in snowstorms, I lost myself 100 times. I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood, I’m going where the light is, even though it’s barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in medals, I lost myself 100 times . My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The building of peaks, the goal is a step. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. At every turn, a new one had to. You either swim or drown, as you were. Destiny is not a joke, it is a path without dubbing. You can’t re-record a scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased a number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. And if suddenly I disappear, knowing, was not under contract, not on business, but for love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light. Even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times found again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood, I go where the light, although it is barely every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times found again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The goal is not the peaks, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the summit, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, the ice comes and floats. All these looks are like films without words. But they contain my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise. But in this chaos, you are my silence. My silence. Remember how we used to talk without words? My fingers are shaking, as if my heart were ringing. You are like midnight, where the stars are burning for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of old books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain gains meaning inside. I was nobody before you. Zero in the wind, but you gave me fire. Even in the fierce January, while you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise. But in this chaos, you are my silence. What? What? What? My silence. You are like an exhalation of a moment where no one breathed. There is no past between you and me anymore. You are a scar, like a chord that sounds between phrases. And every gesture of yours is jazz. I am not looking for why, for what and why you are my answer in this world. Where it is dark all around, let everything change, collapse, melt. If you are near, this world does not die. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice sets and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them the whole essence is my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Even millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse goes on as if told. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes. Demir is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me – it’s just a beat. My memory is glorious, in parts, in grains, it flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness, without offense. My verse suits us, Popov. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. And today is an idle scream. The streets whisper to me again, cool down. But inside, like a fire, you can’t put out gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t put them out. Too much love, but I didn’t survive here. Somewhere out there is my double. He follows in the footsteps, but burns bridges. He is like me. Only a ghost of smoke. He won’t say breathe. He doesn’t know spring. I trampled the day, like cigarette butts in the entrance. I was looking for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response, this world is like crap. Either a verse or a godmother. Believed beat he is more alive. than any other place. This is my holy sin. To live without goals and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain and without dreams. This is my black rain, drops of pain without dreams. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a record. But my verse flows through my veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am no one’s cry. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a record. But my verse flows through my veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. I’m nobody’s cry today. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear somewhere, a brother on the corner, dust in his eyes. Mom prays for us, but we’re drowning in business. This beat is like a lantern that leads through the courtyards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Don’t hold any grudges or guilt against me. I just was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. And let the whisper from the speakers remind me of my style. In these lines, all the pain without a prefix. Sweet, if we meet, suddenly don’t look into my dreams. I will remain a beat. I will dissolve until spring. I will dissolve until spring. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory is in parts, grain by grain, flying across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. But my verse flows through the veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call, I’m no one’s cry today. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness, without sleep. But my verse flows through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a cry. If I go out alone, don’t call. I’m no one’s cry today. You are ready to hear what sounds in the silence. It’s at the end. Listen, I’m not looking for likes. It’s important to me, So that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I have seen endings on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last one on the eve of the stakes and scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I am learning not to fall, even when everyone around has fallen. How many times they betrayed me, I did not count, I counted. Shagir hugs with a knife and smiles like a friend. I am a product of the street of pain, where a word, like a shot in the chest, for the truth you pay with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone, what is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me, what is in the end. What is in the end? I am not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night is like the last fight. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like a razor’s gleam. The city changes faces, but the concrete remains me. Here you can be anyone until you stand up for battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd. And those who were below, go like tanks through the darkness and everyday life. I did not sell style for trends, did not buy myself a role. My rhythms are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path is not a game. There is no button to start over. So, either you burn like fire, or go out like a lamp in the dirt. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me, what is in the end. What is in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but you will be forgotten on Monday. You can buy everything, but you will not buy more. So tell me honestly, what’s in the end. I’m not an idol, I’m a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals, how knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who remain silent are often closer to the soul. I’m in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it doesn’t lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when everything burns, where will you be? What’s in the end, when the smoke clears, then everyone will leave, when you’re left alone, tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? How much does it take to understand that it’s not eternal. How many times do you have to fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, it’s not the packaging that glitters for, but the spirited content. What do we waste our days on? Why do we live like this if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me what’s more important: to be or to seem. You would remain yourself if everything broke. I saw a lot of people who were burning with fire and then sold their souls for likes and a home. Why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-offs and guilt? How much does silence cost, honestly, inside, where is the line of goodness and when to cross? Live what is important, not important. Love the faithful, rejoice in little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, and take care of the weak. Live right. Only important, only important, only important. Only important, only important. What is success if you are alone? If you have everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks? Where is the path that you would call true? After all, we are looking for answers. Not where the question is. We burn bridges where love could be. Why do we accumulate grievances that eat away inside? Instead of forgiveness, we keep stones in our chests. When the last wh is closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? victories or how he hugged his brother, how he said thank you when there were no words, as if he was there when the roof was falling apart. Live what is important, not what is unnecessary, love the faithful, rejoice in little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only what is important, only what is important . Only what is important, only what is important. Only what is important. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and you are just afraid to admit that what is important is nearby, but it is not visible. It is not too late, as long as you hear that life is right. Shadows on the walls. A murky tape in a world where truth is only an experiment. Spikan. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like blades, night on a target. The city makes noise on the air like a demon. They judge for the truth, they are silent like in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, the soul is on the glass. An exit without an exit, running on a loop. People go out like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead are not from will. Press. A word to the heart, like a crowbar pomezhe. Those who were already alive in the black silence, those who were faithful, sold out and left. Neither Balik nor faith will save us here. A veil on our eyes, like a chimera. We are running to nowhere, in these tracks and schemes. Light at the end, only peace in the tunnels. Everything around is a veil, brother. I see right through. Those who were with us for a long time disappear like a guest in this world. Without a bottom, where there is no salvation, a cane. We are going to the end, albeit slowly, in the mouth. Everything around is a veil, but the burn is darkness, rewrote its route, cut the trap. You and I are not alone. Even if our flag is torn by the winds, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, you will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, and not just more raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. I didn’t take a handout, I didn’t jump into the route, I gave a beat, as if it were a parachute, a load on my back, but I didn’t give up the route, so that it would reach the sky, even though my wings don’t grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the dark. Time doesn’t heal, it just devours those, those who were looking for meaning, drowning in the void. While others are swimming, we are swimming at the bottom. I’m not a savior, I’m just a fire that burns in the silence. Under the yoke of chases. It’s not about style, it’s about the essence and damage. My lines are like the truth in tone. There’s a veil all around, but I see myself. Those who were there yesterday left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But there’s concrete beneath us, and we hold our tone. There’s a veil all around, but fuck this cat. I don’t believe in a game where there’s one turn. We were born in fire, water won’t save us. If you yourself haven’t become the light, then it’s not time. But I see the way through it. Even if the whole world is a court, I go. How many bodies in which there are no souls. With whom the night is like a movie, but the morning is like ink. Smeared, though, on the pillow. Where were you nobody she toy? You go out at night, leaving a ringing on the door. Bems without take care of yourself without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. How many such faces, you can’t even remember the names. Empty for tomorrow. As if someone turned off the background. You are again in search, but do not darken. You want a look to penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary. With whom you wake up and the whole world is good, with whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom just night without words. But there are few with whom silence is like blood. With whom not a game, not a pose, not a pose, with whom you want. Tomorrow without falsehood you can live with anyone, as if together. Drink coffee in the morning, argue even 100, go to the south, take pictures in the feed, put rings, but live by inertia. You can be, but not love to listen, but inside not hear the scream. All according to the rules of common accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? The dream is already more difficult here, so that the snow leaf with her initial, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple of sney. There are many with whom you can live as it should, but few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom not in the law, but in conscience purely with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But few are those with whom a blizzard is not terrible, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter, with whom even the spent shallows. And here it is the whole essence in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who at dawn. Who stays, even if the pain, with whom you want tomorrow, not flogged, but with the soul. That’s how we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. Many of those with whom to lie down. Few of those with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, let it go. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, give me a beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is a voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse. Like a shot from the couch – this is what inside cannot be bought for rubles – this is not hype for an hour, but a style for a lifetime. I don’t expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I don’t pretend that everything is behind me. Each text is like a bullet, it flies into the target. I don’t lie, I’m not an actor, shadow and shadow. This is mine. You can’t take it away, break it, or burn it. My voice is like a pulse, it goes to meet you. This is mine, everything that was taken with suffering. My word is like the truth. The sharpened blade of a look. This is mine. You can’t do anything about it, you can’t steal it. This is the pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and while I breathe, I won’t I will give it. Every line, like a flame, is my temple. Temple May the choice not to be like them not to join the crowd not to play on the string these are wounds in the soul that are not visible in the frame this is a fight without gloves for an idea do not lock it up mine this is the flow that goes to the cut without autotune without masks without unnecessary forest every slot made of fire you did not understand me I am like the world without a day this is not just a rhyme this is the meaning a canopy is a nail silence this is an exit and stress these are tears and anger that turned into blood this is the cry of a generation that did not submit to this is mine You can’t take away, you can’t break, you can’t burn my voice, like a pulse. It comes to meet. This is mine. Everything that was suffered was taken. My word is like the truth, a sharpened blade of a gaze. This is mine. You can’t do anything, you can’t steal it. This is the pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and while I breathe, I will not give it up. Every line, like a flame. My temple. The temple is mine. While my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I will not ask, I will not sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like a dream. As if I am stuck between was and where. Time goes by, but I do not know where. The world is not my enemy, but it does not offer. The heart beats like a banned watch. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like my last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. I am zenu with bavda inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look, if you hear, do not turn away. We are the same this charge. Those who are silent know the value of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in half. Every light has its shadow. Every day has its night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like my last breath. But as long as I breathe, I will not retreat. Unchanged but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look without this truth inside. Let them not find me, but if you look, if you are silent, then you breathe. If you walk, then you are alive. And the name? It will still be erased. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence. I swim after a question. Dust falls on my shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by the light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I myself walked barefoot on glass. Didn’t give in to the games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void. But I listened to my eye. It whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my elder brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. There is no point in running in this vanity. We live to lie in the dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between the ashes and the voice, my path is at random. I got lost more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it fades, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If everything around is fading, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one who hides the inner darkness under a blanket, smiling outwardly, rotting from within. There are so many who have not been inside for a long time. Everyone is running for an answer, but they do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when you are on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but inside me. I whisper to the heavens, but I am silent to the people nearby, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have lost myself more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the ending. If the surroundings are fading, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is a contrast. If you hear, it means you’ve lived. If it hurts, it means you haven’t forgotten the path. And while the eye inside hasn’t gone out, you’re a light even in ashes. Even now I’ve seen time, how it tears apart, how boys burn up, not having time to say: “Forgive me.” Concrete is silent, it knows more than prophets. My trace has frozen on it, like blood on a sleeve near a line. Here, every day is like a shot into the soul without a sight. Here, wings don’t save, if the heart is made of metal. Old Man silently smoking a cigarette on a bench. He was a hero until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in a five, who carries away without maples. A kid with a knife in his pocket. Not a gangster, he is scared, but if he presses on the walls, he will cut his hand. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity is behind the garages, where the years are silent. Here, every step is like a final eye. But even those do not remember who is the moose in this dusty fight. I do not write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul is in words, like poison sewn into a blade. Whoever wants eternity, it is not in the hall and not in the top, but in the eyes of those who did not sell themselves wholesale. I remember the yard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they are gone. Only photos remain in an old folder. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on a show-off, and someone rose like a phoenix with blood on their lips. We did not look for God, he looked for us under the bookmark, looked through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is near. We are just strangers in it. We do not live. We are waiting for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step is like a final chord. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lord, I am not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style, like a knife, does not cut the air only the truth on the blade of balance between light and melancholy my soul is not sold, it left with the fighter. We are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but each carries in the heart the power of eternal rebellion. And let them not believe, we have long been immortal. In each verse there is a cry of those who are long gone. Don’t look for me in the charts, my truth is not there. I am the street, where instead of a like there are glances. My rap is not for glory, but to leave a memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul, and you will understand without words. My path is like a burden, my cross is like a cat. I am in the neighborhood, where concrete slabs whisper, where forgive. It is a rarity, like light in orbit, where guys rot for past mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was with them there, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where a knife, a pin, no shot rules. And whoever survived, he is soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and breaks. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. Everything is forgiven in heaven, but here from under the soles, where children are buried under their mothers, it is sickening. When you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends, like machine guns in battle. Everyone is like a brother, but the end is a shovel. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith, if God turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles to reason. Here you can not be alive without leaving behind the biscuit, where forgiveness is. It is not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. Come on, my scars. Not just a story of the body. These are chapters from books where the soul went numb. I went through hell, but it did not forgive. I remained in debt to memory. The rear does not cry here. They laugh in the face of agony and survive. Who will be the first to go for irony? Who will betray completely ? Who will throw off the balance? But forgive me, you are ridiculous, brother, everyone is dangerous here. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent. I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. Do not ask me to be what I was not. My past is coals. In my soul there are only ashes, no one with a white crown will come for me. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayers, as my brothers left. Ashes are ashes uno with pride in every collapse. Do not wait for my tears, do not believe in atonement. I left in this darkness. Without hope for forgiveness. I am not forgiven either by will or by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I seek myself in these faces. I cry loudly, but my soul is empty. And who am I for a world where only concrete reigns? Where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I am alone in the shadow? Where my demons are louder, than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear. Who am I when they don’t believe in me? My brothers. Who am I if I have become a traitor to myself? I am the one who fell and rose again. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Again and again, again and again. I am where emptiness meets light. The one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am an extension of pain, but I found myself in it. I am not a hero or an angel, I am simply alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those no one heard. I am the truth that remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I must go with this. I am the one who fell and rose again. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Again and again, again and again. I am where the emptiness meets the light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. E, again and again, again and again. In every step, in every breath, in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear, as long as the heart burns. I am me and my path says O. God is not visible, but I see Him in the old courtyards, where the asphalt is like a book. Every hole is a story of pain, but somewhere in the drops, on the windows are the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light, in my mother’s words: “Don’t freeze, get dressed.” In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there behind the scenes of our tomorrow. In ripe cherries, in the silence of passages. In the way we love in any weather. He is in every step, when you go nowhere, and everything inside whispers live, in spite of God is not visible, but He is behind your back. In the look of a passerby, in the phrase “wait a minute”, in the smell of a downpour, in a noose and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I feel him when I die, but still smoke. In these poems, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky, and we are both not broken. He is not in the icons, he is in the cigarettes. In those that we share in the morning in the ghetto. In small hopes, in a cold entrance, in each one still alive and in each unflattery. He is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In a girl who walks barefoot at the station, there God is not in gilding, but in her fatigue. In your thoughts, in your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in a role. Even when everyone has left and you are at zero. Open the window, brother. He is nearby in the darkness, mle. God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the look of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in the ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky, and we are both not broken. You will say: “I do not believe.” I will say, it does not matter. God is not a form, not a court, not a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not be. He is in every rhyme that I put here. Are you not sleeping either? Too many questions, huh? And the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen. Where does the part end, the benefit begins. If time heals, why is it burned out inside? Why are words like a blade, but you have not heard them? And why, when you love, do they only strangle more? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for those so much? Why do lies warm us like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus? Even if the body is in the topics, how much is conscience worth, in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in mash? Why do children from the street grow up faster? And why do they put you in the cold in the body for a word? Questions hang in the air, like smoke from armor. How many times was he right, but remained guilty. Where to find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, do you hear? Silence is also loud. Questions why there is not always honor on shoulder straps? Why is the truth immediately on the neck? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness, and who is in the law, if everyone is afraid of the truth, why is the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t you bring back your mother’s voice in childhood? And why are we silent when the heart cracks? If there is meaning, where to look for it in this noise? Why is loneliness as if in the noise? Why, when you are alone in a dead end and how many times has your soul screamed in a bottle? Questions. hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times was I right, but remained guilty. Where to find an answer if everything has already been sold? Brother, can you hear? Silence is also loud. Questions. Where is that paradise that they shout about from the minor? Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you are from the street, then who are you in life? If you are silent, it means you are sold out for your principles. Why, when you die, only then is everyone close by. Why do I love later than I should? There are no answers and maybe there never will be. But if you are still here, you are not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like a code of nauga. There is no photoshop in this, no cheap themes. Here the words are like a sharp knife. They will not leave problems. In the neighborhood they say, like, a dangerous type, but I just see falsehood, where you hear a beat, I do not write for trends. I do not need hype. There is truth in my lines, in Skype in the lines. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent, then remained faceless. This is a street without light, but I see a track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my amulet. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they stand in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word nave gold from pulberig. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent. But in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a gun, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in a movie frame. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still. How many faces have I seen that fell into lies, and I stood on the truth, even if not in power. The heart is cold, like February ice. But the soul burns, as if in a cage it is taking off. You read about Gucci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces did not sell my soul. Not for a feat, not for cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Each syllable is a trace, like from a boot on a tile. This is not commerce, bro. This is male. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they put them in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word canopy gold from the bullets of the shore. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent. But in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a gun, I take care of it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts like a cigarette, that before ash. I am not a fashionable author. I am like a judge in the darkness, my word is my law. And I write about myself. I am the day from the lantern, where there is no one, there is I. And can you hear me? Hardly. Silence, my most honest interlocutor. Again the emptiness of the night. There is no we, no yes left here. The city is buzzing, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world arranged for me bo. I look at the sky, as if at a black screen. There is no ending, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, like us. No matter how much you call, it would be the same. The bench creaks under me, like conscience. I am a reflection of the story in this darkness. All conversations, like an echo in concrete, I am myself and a chain. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it is too late. The wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or a sentence, no matter how much I shout into the void. Only the yard hears, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I drown, the world is paler. They wanted to understand, but they could not. They are open. I am like a city of dust. Every step, as if against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain for me. People like frames on a broken screen, flashed, disappeared, scars remained. I ask for neither love nor peace. It is enough for me to be alive without heroes. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it is too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence. No matter how much I scream into the void. Only the yards hear, the people nearby, but in their eyes there are mustaches, and I walk along it, as if this is my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It does not matter, I am used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I do not write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. My word is an automatic machine, the rhythm is a stream of lights. I did not play heroes, but kept the balance when the streets whispered on. This is your chance. All my lines are a challenge to the system. Every truth is a bomb that tears a million voices on stage. But the truth is in one. I don’t pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rhyme is like a knife on glass. I didn’t come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the carrion kings of the consolation. I walked the tightrope, not looking down. Every line is my life motto. On the beats, as on the field, I am a fighter without count. My verses, like the truth, are bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in the rhythm. I hit the chest of the era, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes, I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not for the sake of. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it firmly. While the heart beats, I live indefinitely. Indefinitely, indefinitely indefinitely. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You are looking for salvation, it is in my lines . I turn pain into music of the living. Forget about the format. I break the patterns. My tracks are like dreams, but without the sawing. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. It’s true. You can’t even buy it. Don’t twist it. This is not just rap. This is the last word. I am here to light up, not to be ready. Each line is like a point-blank shot, I was born to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I will leave behind the lines. In them is the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I am not in trend, I am timeless, like ashes in the wind. But my voice will live, even if I die. Listen, Duchau. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. Against the backdrop of the streets, concrete and melancholy. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent, dad drank, but I became my own, I became like metal. Everyone says, “Be like everyone else, but what for, if all these scars are in the system?” Tried to be right. There was emptiness. Now in every verse there is my anger and dream. Micro, my torch. Rhymes like an explosion. I write as if this is my last stroke. The night in the area is quiet and sirens. We are the generation of a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. Where is my success? It is in a notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in problems and salt? Where is my faith? On the back of the cops, but even in hell I hold my front. How many of us are here, who of us is alive? Who did not give up when the world screamed live in eyes without fire? You will not understand if you were not like me. I fly through the beat like a bullet in the skull. Through the dirt and concrete I hear trust. This is a street opposite TikTok and not a dream. This is where tears in the eyes of the boys are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If the heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, in the air. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. I am not a star, I am not a blogger, not a genius. I am just the voice of het on stage. No matter how much pain there is inside, I rhyme to live, just like you. Listen, I don’t know where you will be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is the path. Keep it inside. Listen, don’t be the one who shouts, but the one who hears. The truth can be purer in silence. Look into the eyes of those who are close to you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent about the truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but make sense, I get up to fly. And remember, don’t be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like the light in the depths, I will be like the voice in the darkness, I will not be a shadow, but the essence. Even when I forget everything, I will be. I promise I will be. Don’t look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a castle. Don’t hide it in vain. He who truly loves always returns himself. Believe, but do not love blindly, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If suddenly it becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you. The fire is also you. Appreciate those who are near not later, but in the moment. Life is a handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that it breathes openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through ice. I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire. And I will not disappear later. I will. I will, I promise, I will. We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok. The real world is like in an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone. In the world, we have forgotten how to live without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without showing off and showcases. This verse is for those who are silent, but burn. Our mothers pray that we do not get lost, and we are in algorithms that broke us. Can you hear my beat? This is a heart in wires. Too loud inside to remain in the shadows. We are all above it at Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online. And in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart offline, but the soul screams like a head. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and words. I saw kids who don’t know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise on Stories. This is where we lose our roots, bro. After all, we value untruth, but what we form. These filters are like masks on scars. We are alive in the photos, but in life there is drama. We try to look better than we are. But happiness is not a pixel, but who is here next to us. My lines are like a knife, cutting through the fog. I am not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us on stream. But if you feel pain, know that you are not alone. And even if you are lost, the world inside you is not a demo version. Look at all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. But we are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if this is how it should be. We live online, and in our eyes there is only noise, we disappear into the heart. Offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, it’s not just a sound, it’s a cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds. There is a way out. It’s inside, not in the feed, in you. How love dies not with a scream, but with a whisper in rooms with a booming echo. First with breath, then with a phone, then with nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if you were looking out the window in debt. I’ll run into myself. There’s nothing left, forgive me, there’s nothing left, I love. Only you know, I’ll play with him in the ice later. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times when you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two, but the more I breathed, the faster it left. I tried to understand where the rip went wrong, where the music and feelings went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall. But in the walls I also remained with you, like a song without words. I’m like a beat without movement. We parted in the corners, like the fall of an overthrow. We didn’t burn out right away, but that’s more important. Love dies when no one else is in pain. How love dies, not with a shot, but with rain on the glass where we are no longer. Like a silent train station without a ticket office, like a sunset that says goodbye without saying wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life, not with scandals, like a cup broken in a wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am already unloved. I remember your look, like a tired February. You searched in the spring, but brought only sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I am angry. You were tired of hoping that I would change. I smoked by the window, as if in this salvation. But you can’t hide a broken movement in the smoke. You were lying in bed not next to each other, but as if behind a curtain in a different parallel. We did not leave loudly, we simply returned tickets to the film, where we were the finale of the film. Rivers, not friends, just dust on the glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness, you are not a victim. We simply did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, in its silence you can still hear the hour. How love dies neither by death nor by thunder, but by steps in others with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on a hand. Not mine, but for you. How love dies without attribution. Just in a world where time erases space. And I am no longer yours, and you are not mine. But in our silence everything is still Bolzheva. How love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. How are you? In the emptiness without goodbyes, without drama, without words, that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but in it the lines of fates have become crooked and the looks are empty. Brother, I see them, I dream of them alive. Shadows on the walls, like a memory of pain. I’m not running, I’m standing at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but there’s lava inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet. I shoot out of shape. The truth burned my fingers like a flame on a house. But I didn’t burn out. I became her warrior. Not for the air, not for rent. This is mine. a path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric shock to the shoulder blades. But I didn’t give in, I became strong, like a fact. This is a new day. This is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Every new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not bother me. This is a new day. All your screams do not heal wounds. All this hate has become like mantras for me. Quieter at the start, I explode at the finish. I am not in pursuit, I myself am already a virus. Years flow through my veins like crazy, but I have not frozen. I have become like foam. They press us from above, but we are on the rise. Dust on the crosses, medals in the album. You wanted rap? Get what you need. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a beard. I’m not one of those who lose their phase. My verse is a shot coming right away. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I do not live for the hype of stories. My intellect is my territory. Each of my words is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost yourself in the night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch each new stroke. It is you, not me. This is a new day, there are no more walls. I broke through the concrete, I erase the captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not interfere with me. This is a new day. Oh, oh, the light falls, I stand under it. I’m not a saint, but I’m not alone. The flame is inside, and I need smoke. To become yourself, you need to become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up and for ourselves. Respect. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved themselves when they were drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not shout at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on the chest? Who was on the run from themselves in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive? Who changed cities, but did not run away from pain? Who built themselves not according to fashion, by will, who took the microphone when there was a storm in the heart? Who carried rhymes, as if bullets in the forehead? Who was without a chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in the fruit? Who if thunder? Who if all this then, who remained, when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? If you are a brother, who if all this then, who remained, when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though he fell in the morning. Who was homeless in a stranger’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when pain is like God? Who tells the truth when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond the edge, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn back later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but was resurrected without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Who, if you are a brother, who, if all this? Who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who are you when the light goes out and no one calls? When everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who is the edge? I go to the end, even if it’s dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass, my thoughts, like a blade, cut knives. My tracks are not hits. This is a cry from the soul. Thousands of faces and not a single one of mine, I was looking for at least someone . Only about her, every step is like on ice. Emptiness under me. But I believe in purity for pain. I did not build palaces, I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there is no spring for a long time. But I believe in the fire that remains in the eyes. I go to the end. Even I will follow to the end, without looking back. Let not water, but passion flow through the veins. Let everything be broken. Dust is my crossroads. But I believe through the darkness you can break out into the air. I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway trains. But I chose to go. Even if there is trouble, my lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. I burn a beach as an answer to those who did not notice. I am not an angel and not a chatterbox. I am only the one who is tired, but did not lie down, did not fall. I did not lie to myself. This is the main thing in the rhythm of hell, but with fire that will not die yet. In this city, shadows replace faces in this heart, like ice, but it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and am silent, but I live. I will go to the end without looking back. Let not water flow through the veins, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust. This is my crossroads, but I believe through darkness. I can break out into the air, I will go to the end. Let my soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. Ah, ah . People break down in silence, like children growing on a concrete wall, like Teri’s mother waiting, but not hearing the bell, and memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending. We change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone remains to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint, I fell myself, on my knees, to the bottom, under someone else’s psalm. But I rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are dots in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it’s important how much is in the account, but it’s important who cries when you go into the void. We were all light. We live in it, love, lose. We leave and are together again. Where the pain of happiness is not enemies, but brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the point. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken gut. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies. It is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain, through dreams through the media, we run for meaning, losing feelings. As if the soul is just a device. But I’ll try to live one day in the warmth, not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. All dust is light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where pain is happiness, not enemies, brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the point. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, neither tears nor troubles. We are part of one river that flows through worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be human is the truth. Out loud. Everything will return good and evil and breath. We are part of the Universe, not a body, but radiance. And let everything pass, as this track will pass. There will be a trace left if there was light in it. The night dissolves in this smoke, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am empty in the city. In the area everything is in a circle, guys, concrete spleen. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I have not drunk strong wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. It was my doping. Now even in other people’s clothes you look like a copy. The heart in compression presses like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. I am filled with neither alcohol nor grass. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit my rights. I am in a hoodie, but not a gufty, not a saint. You are like a tolerant, at first it gets high, then it doesn’t get you. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidotatrance the light goes out, and I disappear, like smoky in my head your name still sounds the same . I’m fading like a lamp in an empty entrance. You’re not here, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold, concrete plot. You remained my flashback in a cassette. You rode the hype, and on your thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, in headphones Silence. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played at love, and I lived in it superfluously. In the area, everything is the same. The wind is on the balcony, you won’t come back, but I don’t call for reason. My world is gray asphalt and beats. You are like a filter on the Internet, everything is beautiful, but not you. How many fakes, I miss, how much pain, forgive me, you are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I don’t hold a grudge, I just don’t believe anymore. You, like a cartridge in the chamber, killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidotran. The light goes out and I disappear like smoke. But your name still sounds in my head. I fade like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not here, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. I wish you freedom, something that is not allowed in a photo and that you do not hide from the truth in someone else’s arms. I am like a shadow, and you are like a lighthouse. Once I saved, but now I do not. I do not need light, I have been in the dark for a long time. I do not call God, he was not in me. The world is like a noose, and I am in it on the cheek. I am writing this verse, as if I am saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother squeezed my veins, when my brother left without a chance for change, when the city screamed, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I looked for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles block the sermon, like shooting. I looked for him in myself, but found only silence that burns from within, as if I were pouring on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I am my own cross. On the shoulders of unbelief, and concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write an ending here. Children die here so that someone would be silent. Where was God when I burned inside? When days are nightless, when there are seeds in the shadows, I don’t swear and I don’t ask heaven. I just read until a tear falls. Yes. Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind your back, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself? The only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist, I am a survivor in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh, when I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon in the war. Do you hear the sound? It’s not just a beat, it’s the crispness of a dream that left without protection. I’m not on top, but in the hearts of those who dance with the shadow, and not with likes for success. Where was God when I burned inside? When days go night, when I pray in the shadow, I don’t swear and don’t ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. A tear. If you feel, then you’re alive. It means that rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I’m not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I’m just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just for eating, it’s for living. People go here when everything collapses. Some cry, some are silent. The kitchen will never return. In the kitchen, in the kitchen, in the kitchen, where time is in both, like in wounds. We sit at night, confessing on the sofas, like a jury’s tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. The ashtray is full, thoughts with blood. Since childhood we learned not to believe in the future. With God, dreams smoke here, not letting light in the window. A neighbor from the fourth, third term, like a prisoner. The salt has scattered, fate with it. You should have seen how your brother left for nowhere in February. We do not cry, our eyes are just tired. The word love here has been replaced by fallen. In the kitchen in gentle Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams and echoes, the road is scattered with salt and milk on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been different, but everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is law, but the soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance does not hear. In every teapot a scream, in every look a protest. Shoes are not taken off, which means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. Marriages and wars are decided in the kitchen, and in the mug of cracks is a whole homeland. Here my paradise passed, they hang by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come to the kitchen. Everything is like last year. In the kitchen in careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams for descendants, salt scattered along the path and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been good. Everything could have been good, but it couldn’t. In the kitchen we lived as if it were our last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain human. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? Do you remember, I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a finale with a happy ending here. Here, everyone in armor has decorated their minds with rap. I’m not in trend, I’m outside. My lines are not just phrases, they are bullets in time. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where There is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder behind the scenes. It is heard through millions. Only just. The truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My strictos are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this essence is not vanity. I have not been sold, I have not forgotten. So I’m alive. So I’m alive. I’m not a phantom from TikTok, I’m a cat on rusty concrete. My heart beats under Norsentsova, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I understood what the essence is. Rap is not flex and non-chain. It is pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance, reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples. In the one who can do everything in himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are the chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot, but underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, not in trends, not in hit parades. I am in the eyes guys who dream of being close. I’m in mistakes, falls, in every broken day I rise like dawn and breathe in fire. Only truth is on the beat. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this essence is not vanity. I am not sold, not forgotten. It means I am alive, it means I am alive. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light, when the eyes are in smoke? Where is up, if I myself do not understand? We build days from emptiness and a cry: “How much longer to be silent, when the soul is great?” I see people with masks on all their faces, but behind the smile there are wounds to me and fairy tales. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday, but tramples the good, to get out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are scrapped under a new bow, where love is like a product on a shelf in the network, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land won’t drown out? We’re running from ourselves, but the light won’t go out, until you’re not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who haven’t sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land won’t drown out? We’re running from ourselves, but the light won’t go out, until you’re not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the line between lies and fear, where is the soul that you can’t buy for a price list. We live in an era where feeling is weakness, and honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through, but the walls muffle the truth, so as not to break. Silence is a friend of lies, it’s in fashion, but I’m moving forward, on the edge, not in code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They can’t be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it’s dark, the light is not outside. The light has been inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who haven’t sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land won’t drown out? We’re running from ourselves, but the light won’t go out, as long as you’re not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who haven’t sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land won’t drown out? We’re running from ourselves, but the light won’t go out, as long as you’re not a shadow, not dust, but fate. If you hear, it’s not silent, you’re not alone, and I’m not in the shadow. Shine in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it’s in you. Time flies away like a shadow behind you. And we’re still standing, as if this life is building. Those who made noise have long been out of action. I’m still here, on the old edge. In the photo in the album Black and white quarter, where it smelled of concrete ani digital signal. There instead of likes there were cries of stop. And everyone had something else under their shirt. Bars without neon, tobacco and concrete. Beats from a cassette tape again iPhone. Those who were there, they went to the end. They disappeared like a pixel from a face. The sound of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Those who lived without masks were doomed. Words were kept not for show, but so that the house would not sway under them. The era is gone, but remained in the eyes. In concrete courtyards, lanterns in voices. We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remained, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in veins, but in each of us there is a street scene, where you, my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like concrete icons. Texts on the walls are like an eternal tablet. We do not need likes, we need steel morality. Partially gone, this noise came, but you will not replace the smell and strings for me. I am still the same with a face at the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of shop windows. The era is gone, like a ship without a mother, took with it. Those who could keep silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With the era in our chests, but with a different border. This is not rap, this is an exhalation. This is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to feng shui, but like misery. Like ba. The era is gone, gone. We are still here. When I am gone, it will become quieter in the gateway. Where my voice was, only steps at an empty job, where I left my soul. Now there is smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold strength in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say: “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, there is no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear like a look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle over the cross where my name is carved with an uneven knife? Who will understand what burned inside me when the world lived and I walked in the darkness? Those words that I dropped into a notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the lines and thunderstorms. Tell me what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom. What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple, when they will forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? I’m not afraid. I’ve already been down there, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak, like ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. in the evening on the pit to lie down veche Evening in the window the neon trembles. I was born in the bit, to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a Kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who you became? But I am in the fire among the ashes, as if a phoenix is tired.” Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. Who does not burn your path, but silently holds the frame. I dreamed, I fall from the roof, but the earth is erased by night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I am not here for glory, I am here so as not to go crazy. While you like the photo, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight silence. My language, I speak between the lines. You read, if you are not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear a volcano chest. I saw how faith breaks in people. In myself in words, how dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they beat with cold lead. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. Ini is a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on the drafts of those burned stronger. A generation of phones and likes on photos of pain. But where are you, when I was drowning in emptiness, did not sweep? My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with a thread, but with a beaten rhythm. If the heart froze, then someone inside is killed. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to remain in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not a style. This fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to stay in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain. I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. Mine are strict as sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete, in this eternal century. And while my voice is in bits, I am alive despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply simply mine. How many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, as if everything was starting over. There’s a kettle in the kitchen, smoke in the window, and thoughts without an ending. Why do I run every day, where does the path lead, if I don’t know who I am, how to choose anchors? There are hundreds of phrases on the phone, but not a single one is alive. Everything is business-related, everything is smart. But someone with a head: “I don’t need applause, likes, falsehood. I would like to understand why I’m here, until I go to heaven. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to rise with the end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever only until soon. I go where the light is. Even though it’s barely every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in snowstorms I lost myself 100 times. Found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I go where the light is. Even though it’s barely every step on the bike, even in snowstorms I lost myself 100 times found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The building of peaks, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. The goal is not a peak, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. At every turn a new one must was. You either swim or drown yourself, as you were. Fate is not a joke, it is a path without dubbing. You will not re-record a scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased the number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. And if suddenly I disappear, knowing, was not under contract, not on business, but for love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light is. Even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times and found myself again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood, I go where the light is, even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times and found myself again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The goal is not the peaks, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, the ice thickens and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of both my pain and my love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Among millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos, you are my silence. Oh, the suit is silent. Oh, oh. Do you remember how we had conversations without words? Fingers tremble, as if there is a ringing in the heart. You are like midnight, where the stars burn for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of old books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain acquires meaning inside. I was nobody before you. Zero in the wind, but you gave me fire even in the fierce January. While you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice thickens and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Among millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos, you are my silence. You are my silence , a moment when no one was breathing between me and you, there is no past anymore, a scar, you are like a chord that sounds between phrases, and each of your gestures is the meaning of Taj . I am no longer looking for why, for what, and why. You are my answer in this world. Where it is dark all around, let everything change, collapse, melt. If you are near, this world does not die. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice sets and floats. All these looks are like films without words. But in them, the whole essence is my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Even among millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos, you are my silence. It is not the light that breaks through me, it is just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse suits us. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes. Demir is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call, I’m no one’s cry today. It’s not light that can break through me. It’s just a beat. My memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. Believe me, my verse suits us. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. And today is no one’s cry. The streets whisper to me: “Cool down again.” But inside, like a fire, you can’t put out gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t count them. Too much love, but I didn’t survive here. Somewhere there is my double, he follows in the footsteps, but burns bridges. He, like me, is just a ghost, smoke. He will not say breathe. He does not know spring. I trampled the day, like cigarette butts in the entrance. I looked for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response, this world is like crap, or a verse, or a godmother. I believed the beat, it is more alive than all places. This is my holy sin. To live without goals and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain. Without dreams. This is my black rain. Drops of pain without dreams. It is not the light that breaks through me. It is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across the cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness, uninhabited. But my sti goes through the veins, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am nobody’s cry, it’s not light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat, like my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, on cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in a dark without a record. My verse goes along the povens. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am nobody’s cry. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear. Somewhere my brother is on the corner, in his eyes there is ashes. Mom prays for us. But we are drowning in deeds. This beat is like a lantern, that leads through the courtyards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Don’t hold any grudges against me, don’t blame me. I just was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. And let the whisper from the speakers remind you of my style. In these lines, all the pain without a prefix, darling. If we meet, suddenly don’t look into my dreams. I will remain a beat, I will dissolve until spring. I will dissolve until spring. It is not the light that penetrates me. It is just a beat. As if my memory is in parts, grain by grain, flying across cheeks. In the dungeons of mascara, we are like children in the darkness without offense. But my verse goes through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call me today, no one’s cry. It is not the light that penetrates me. It is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies on cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a request. But my verse goes through the veins. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. Today I am an accidental scream. Are you ready to hear what sounds in the silence? It is at the end. Listen. I am not looking for likes, it is important for me that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I have seen finales on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last on the eve of the stake and scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I am learning not to fall, even when everyone around has fallen. How many times they betrayed, I did not count, I counted. The stepper hugs with a knife, smiling like a friend. I am a product of the street of pain, where the word is like a shot to the chest. You pay for the truth with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What’s in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what’s in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What’s in the end, when money burns your peace? What’s in the end? Tell me what’s in the end, what’s in the end. I’m not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night is like the last battle. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like a razor’s gleam. The city changes faces, but concrete remains with me. Here you can be anyone until you stand up for battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd. And those who were below, go like tanks through darkness and everyday life. I did not sell style for trends, I did not buy myself a role. My rips are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path is not a game, there is no start again button. So either you burn like fire or you go out like a lamp in the dirt. What’s in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what’s in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What’s in the end, when money burns your peace? What’s in the end? Tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but they’ll forget you on Monday. You can buy everything, but you can’t buy more. So tell me honestly, what’s in the end. I’m not an idol, I’m a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals. How knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who remain silent are often closer to the soul. I’m in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it doesn’t lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when everything burns down, where will you be? What’s in the end, when the smoke clears? Then everyone will leave, when you’re left alone. Tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? How long does it take to understand that it’s not forever. How many times do you have to fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, not for that. The packaging is shiny, but the content is dull. What do we waste our days on? Why do we live like this, if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me what’s more important: to be or to seem? Would you stay yourself if everything broke. I’ve seen a lot of people who were burning with fire, and then sold their souls for likes and a home. But why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-offs and guilt? How much does silence cost, honestly, inside, where is the line of goodness and when to cross? Live important, not important, love the faithful, rejoice in the little, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, and take care of the weak. Live correctly. Only important, only important. Only important, only important. Only important. What is success if you are alone? If you have everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks? Where is the path that you would call true? We are looking for answers. Not where the question is. We burn bridges where there could be love. Why do we accumulate grievances, What do they eat inside? Instead of forgiveness we hold stones in our chest. And when the last breath becomes closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? Victories or how you hugged your brother? How you said thank you when there were no words, as if nearby when the blood was collapsing. Live important shadow unnecessary. Love the faithful, rejoice in the little, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only important, only important, only important, only important, only important. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and are simply afraid to admit that the important is near, but it is not visible. It is not too late, as long as you hear that live once live correctly. Shadows on the walls. A murky feed in a world where truth is only an experiment. Spam. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like a blade, night on a target. The city like a demon makes noise on the air. Judged for the truth, silent as in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, soul on the glass. Exit without exit, running on a loop. People go out, like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead not from pain. Press out. A word to the heart, like a crowbar nearer. Those who were alive are already in the black silence. Those who were faithful, sold out and left. Neither Balik nor faith will save here. A veil on the eyes, like a chimera. We are running to nowhere in these tracks and schemes. Light at the end, only peace in the tunnels. Everything around is Belen. I see right through the return. Those who were with us for a long time disappear like a guest in this bottomless world, where salvation is not a cane. We go to the end, albeit slowly, vrock is a veil, but the burn is darkness rewrote its route, cut the trap. You and I are not alone. Even if the wind tears our flag, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, you will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, not just pain. I raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. I didn’t take serves, I didn’t jump into the route, I gave a beat, as if it were a parachute. GRU behind my back, but I didn’t give up the route, so that it reached the sky, even though wings don’t grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the dark. Time doesn’t heal, it just devours those, those who were looking for meaning, drowning in emptiness. While others are swimming, we will emerge at the bottom. I am not a savior, I am just a fire that burns in silence. Under the oppression of pursuits. This is not about style, this is about the damage to the essence. My lines are like the truth in tone. Everything around is a veil, but I see myself. Those who were there yesterday left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But there is concrete beneath us, and we hold our tone. Everything around is a veil, but I orb this cat. I do not believe in a game where there is one turn. We were born in fire, water will not save. If you yourself have not become light, then it is not time. Faith, but I see the way through it. Even if the whole world is a court, I go. How many bodies in which there are no souls. With whom the night is like a movie, but the morning is like ink. Smeared truth on the pillow. Where have you been, no one is a toy. You go out at night, leaving a ringing on the door. Besms without take care of yourself without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. How many such faces, you can not even remember the names. Empty for tomorrow, as if someone turned off the background. You are again in search, but do not darken. You want a look to penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a snowstorm is not scary. With whom you wake up, and the whole world becomes kinder, with whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom the night is simply wordless, but there are few with whom silence is like blood. Dark is a game, not a pose, you don’t want to pose. Tomorrow without falsehood you can live with anyone, as if drinking coffee together in the morning, arguing even 100, going to the south, taking pictures for the feed, putting rings, but living by inertia. You can be, but not love to listen, but not hear the scream inside. Everything according to the rules of common accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? It is already harder to dream here, so that a snow leaf with her initials, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple of nights. There are many with whom you can live as you should, but there are few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom you are not legally, but pure in conscience, with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed, but few with whom a blizzard is not scary, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter, with whom even the past is sweeter. And here is the whole essence in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who at dawn, who stays, even if there is pain, with whom you want tomorrow, not by role, but with soul. This is how we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, we lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. There are many with whom to go to bed. Few are those with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, and the beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, give me the beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is the voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse like a shot from the couch. This is what inside cannot be bought for rubles. This is not hype for an hour, but a style for life. I do not expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I do not pretend that everything is behind us. Each text is like a cartridge, it flies into the target. I do not lie, I am not an actor, not those and a shadow. This is mine. You can’t take it away, you can’t break it, you can’t burn it. My voice is like a pulse, it goes towards you. It’s all mine, taken with suffering. My word is like truth, sharpened by a blade of a look. It’s mine. You can’t do anything about it, you can’t steal it. Eh, the pain in the voice that learned to scream. It’s mine, and as long as I breathe, I won’t give it away. Every line is like a flame, my temple. My temple temple May choice not to be like them not to join the crowd not to play on the string these are wounds in the soul that are not visible in the frame this is a fight without gloves for an idea do not lock mine this is a flow that goes to the cut without autotune without masks without unnecessary forest each syllable is like a blow like a sip from the fire you did not understand me like the world without a day this is not just a rhyme it is a meaning a canopy is a nail silence this is an exit and stress these are tears and anger that turned into blood this is the cry of a generation that was not fixed this is mine You can’t take away, break or burn my voice like a pulse. It comes to meet. This is mine. Everything that was suffered was taken. My word is like the truth. The sharpened blade of a gaze. This is mine. Can’t do anything, can’t steal. Eh, pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine. And while I breathe, I will not give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. My temple. This is mine. While my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I will not ask, I will not sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like in a dream, as if stuck between was and where. Time goes by, but I do not know where. Mirne is not an enemy, but he does not offer it either. The heart beats like a clock under the ban. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. Eze with a bada inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look, if you hear, do not turn away. We are the same charge. Those who are silent know the value of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in half. Every light has its shadow. Every day has its night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like my last breath. But as long as I breathe, I will not retreat. Unchanged, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. Without the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I follow. If you are silent, it means you are breathing. If you walk, it means you are alive. And the name? It will be erased anyway. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence, I swim after the question. Dust falls on shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I myself walked barefoot on glass. Did not give in to the games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void, but I listened to my eye. It whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my elder brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. There is no point in running in this vanity. We live to lie in the dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between the ashes and the voice, my path is at random. I got lost more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it fades, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If everything around is fading, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one under the blanket. They hide the inner darkness, smiling outwardly, rotting from within. So many who have long been gone from within. Everyone is running for an answer, but do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but in me. I whisper to the heavens, but I am silent to the people nearby, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have been lost more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If everything around is fading, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. If you hear, it means to live. If it hurts, it means you have not forgotten the path. And while the eye inside does not dim you, you are the light even in the ashes. Even now I have seen time, how it tears apart, how boys burn, not having time to say: “Forgive me”. Concrete is silent. It knows more than prophets. My trace has frozen on it, like blood, on the sleeve near the line. Here every day is like a shot into the soul without a sight. Here wings do not save, if the heart is made of metal. An old man on a bench silently smokes a cigarette. He was a hero until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in a five, which carries away without maples. A boy with a knife in his pocket. Not a gangster, he is scared, but if the walls are pressing, he will cut a hand. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where the years are silent, here every step is like a final eye. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lo, I do not write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul is in words, like poison sewn into a blade. Who wants eternity, it is not in the hall or at the top, but in the eyes of those who did not sell themselves wholesale. I remember the yard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they are gone. Only photos in an old folder remain. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on show, and someone rose like a phoenix, with blood on their lips. We did not seek God, he was looking for us under the bookmark, looked through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is near. We are just strangers in it. We do not live. We are waiting for the moment to become a legend. Eternity is behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step is like a final chord. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lord, I am not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style doesn’t cut the air like a knife, only the truth on the blade of balance between light and melancholy my soul is not sold, it left with a fighter. We are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but each one carries in the heart the power of eternal rebellion. And let them not believe, we have long been immortal. In each verse there is a cry of those who are long gone. Don’t look for me in the charts. My truth is not there. I am the street, where instead of likes there are glances. My rap is not for glory, but so that the memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame remains. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul, and you will understand without words. My path is like a load, my cross is like a cat. I am in the block, where concrete slabs whisper, where forgive. It is a rarity, like light in orbit, where the guys rot for past mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was there with them, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where there is a knife, a back, no shot, but rules, and whoever survived is soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and spurts. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. Everything is forgiven in paradise, but here from under the sole, where children are buried under their mothers, it is sickening. And when you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as is, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends like machine guns in battle. Everyone is like a brother, but in the finals shovels. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith, if God turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles to reason. You can’t be alive here without leaving behind the birch. Where is forgiveness? It is not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. Come on, my scars. Not just a history of the body. These are chapters from books where the soul went numb. I went through hell, but it did not forgive. Remained in debt to memory. The rear is here does not cry. Laugh in the face of agony and survive. Who will be the first to go for irony? Who will betray completely, who will throw off the balance. But forgive me, you are ridiculous, brother, everyone is dangerous here. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. Yes, I have crosses, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes, there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent. I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. Do not ask me to be what I was not. My past is coals. In my soul there are only ashes, no one will come for me with a white crown. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayers, as my brothers left. Ashes are ashes with pride in every collapse. Do not wait for my tears, do not believe in redemption. I left in this cancer. Without hope for forgiveness, I am not forgiven either by will or by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I search for myself in these faces. I cry loudly, but my soul is empty. And who am I for the world, where only concrete reigns, where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I am alone in the dark? Where my demons are louder than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear. Who am I when they do not believe in me? My brothers. Who am I if I became a traitor to myself? I am the one who fell and got up again. I am the one who carries his pain in his heart. Me again and again, again and again. I am there, where emptiness meets light. The one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am a continuation of pain, but I found myself in it. I am not a hero and not an angel. I am just alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those whom no one heard. It is true that I remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave, as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I will go with this. I am the one who fell and got up with me. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. I am again and again, again and again. I am there, where emptiness meets light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again. In every step, in every breath, in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear, as long as the heart burns. I am me and my path speaks O. ا old yards. Where the asphalt is like a book. Each hole is a story of pain. But somewhere in the drops, on the windows the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light. In my mother’s words don’t freeze, get dressed. In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there behind the scenes of our tomorrow. In ripe cherries, in the silence of passages, in the way we love. In any weather. He is in every step when you go nowhere. And everything inside whispers: “Live”, despite God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait a minute”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I feel him when I die. But I still smoke. In these poems, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky, and we are both not broken. He is not in the icons, he is in the cigarettes. In those that we share in the morning in the ghetto, in small hopes, in a cold entrance. In each one he is still alive and in each unflattery. He is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In a girl who walks barefoot along the train station, there God is not in gilding, but in her fatigue. In so your thoughts, in so your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in a role. Even when everyone is gone and you are at zero. Open the window, brother. He is near in the darkness God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I feel him when I die. But I still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky. And we are both not broken. You will say: “I do not believe.” I will say: “It does not matter.” God is not a form, not a court, not a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not have. He is in every rhythm that I put here. Are you not sleeping either? Too many questions, right? And the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen. Where does honor end, benefit begins. If time heals, why is it burned inside? Why are words like a blade, but you did not hear them? And why, when you love, do they strangle you even more? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for those so much? Why do lies warm us, like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus? Even if the body is in themes, how much is conscience worth in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in a mash? Why do street kids grow up faster? And why do they put you in the cold for saying something? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, do you hear? Silence is also loud. Questions why there is not always honor on shoulder straps? Why does the truth immediately get a slap on the neck? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness, and who is in the law, if everyone is afraid of the truth, why is the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t you get your mother’s voice back in childhood? And why are we silent when the heart cracks? If there is meaning, where can you look for it in this noise? Why is loneliness like in the noise? Why, when you are alone in a dead end and how many times has your soul screamed in a bottle? Questions. Hang in the air like smoke from a bro. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer if everything has already been sold? Brother, can you hear me? The silence is loud too. Questions, where is that paradise that they shout about from the minaret? Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you’re from the street, then who are you in life? If you’re silent, then you’ve sold out for your principles. Why is it that when you die, only then is everyone nearby? Why do I love later than I should? There are no answers and maybe there never will be. But if you’re still here, you’re not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like a code at random. There is no Photoshop in this, no cheap themes. Words here are like a sharp knife. They won’t leave any problems. In the neighborhood they say, like, a dangerous type, but I just see falsehood, where you hear a beat, I don’t write for trends. I don’t need hype. There is truth in my lines, and Skype in my lines. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent later remained faceless. This is a street without light, but I see a track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my amulet. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they stand in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, in the word nave gold from the bull’s bank. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart the threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a gun, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in a movie frame. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still. How many faces I have seen that fell into lies, and I stood on the truth, even if not in power. The heart is cold, like February ice. But the soul burns, as if in a cage it is about to take off. You read about Gucci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces did not sell the soul. Not for a feat, not for cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Every syllable is a trace, like from a boot on a tile. This is not commercial, bro. This is male. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they put them in the corner. Neither the play is a dirty route, where according to the word nave gold from the bullets of the shore. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a pistol, I take care of it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts, like a cigarette that burns to ashes. I am not a fashionable author. I am like a judge in the darkness, my word is my law. And I write about myself. I am the day from the lantern, where there is no one, there is I. And can you hear me? Hardly. Silence, my most honest interlocutor. Again night and emptiness. There is neither us nor Da left here. The city is buzzing, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world had arranged a bo for me. I look at the sky, as if at a black screen. There is no ending, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, like us. No matter how much you call, it would be the same. The bench creaks under me, like conscience. I am a reflection of the story in this darkness. All conversations are like an echo in concrete, I am myself and a chain , always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it is too late. The wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence. No matter how much I shout into the void, only the yard hears. People are nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I tanuka the world is paler than all. They wanted to understand, but they could not. They are open. I am like a city of dust. Every step is like against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain. People like frames in a broken screen flashed, disappeared, scars remained. I ask neither for love nor for peace. It is enough for me to be alive without heroes. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it is too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence, no matter how much I shout into the void. Only the yards hear, the people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It does not matter. I am used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I do not write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time, an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. My word is an automatic machine, the rhythm is a stream of lights. I did not play heroes, but kept the balance when the streets whispered on. This is your chance. All my lines are like a challenge in the system. Each truth is a bomb that explodes on the stage. A million voices. But the truth is in one. I don’t pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the kings of carrion console parts. I walked a tightrope, not looking down. Every line is my life motto. On the beats, as on the field, I am a fighter without count. My verses, like the truth, are bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in rhythm. I hit the chest of pohi, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes. I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not for the sake of. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it tight. As long as my heart beats, I live forever. I live forever. Indefinitely. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You are looking for salvation, it is in my lines. I turn pain into music of the living. Forget about the format. I break patterns. My tracks are like dreams, but without a veil. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. This is the truth. You can’t even buy it. Don’t twist it. This is not just rap. This is the last word. I am here to light up, not to be prepared. Each line is like a point-blank shot, I was born to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I will leave behind the lines. In them, the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I am not in trend, I am out of ashes in the wind. But my voice will live, even if I die. Listen with your soul. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. The streets are concrete and melancholy in the background. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent, dad was drinking, but I became my own. I became like metal. Everyone says: “Be like everyone else, but why, if all these scars are in the system? I tried to be right, there was emptiness. Now in every verse there is my anger and dream. My micro torch. Rhymes like an explosion. I write as if this is my last stroke. The night in the area is quiet and sirens. We are knee-deep in a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. Where is my success? It is in a notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in problems and salt? Where is my faith on the back of the cops? But even in hell I hold my front. How many of us are here? Who of us is alive? Who did not give up when the world screamed live? Where is the love in these eyes without fire? You will not understand if you were not like me. Through the beat I I’m flying. Like a bullet in the skull. Through dirt and concrete. I hear trust. This street is the opposite of TikTok and not dreams. This is where tears in the eyes of boys are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If your heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a pose on the edge and in the air. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I’m at home in this track. I’m not a star, I’m not a blogger, not a genius. I’m just the voice of a get on stage. No matter how much pain there is inside, I rhyme to live, just like you. Listen, I don’t know where you’ll be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is the path. Keep it inside. Listen, be someone else, who shouts, and to those who hear. In silence, too, the truth is purer. Look into the eyes to those who are close to you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish the silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent in truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but I rise with a thought to fly. And remember, do not be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like a light in the depths, I will be like a voice in the darkness. I will not be a shadow, but an essence. Even when I forget everything, I will be. I promise, I will be. Do not look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a castle, do not hide it in vain. He who truly loves always returns himself. Believe, but do not love blindly, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If it suddenly becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you. The fire is you too. Appreciate those who are near not later, but in the moment. Life is handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that it breathes openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through the ice, I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire. And I will not disappear later. I will be, I promise I will be. We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok the real world as if in an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone in the world we have forgotten how to live without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without showing off and shop windows. This verse is for those who are silent, but burn. Our mothers pray that we do not get lost. And we are in the algorithms that broke us. Can you hear my beat? It’s the heart in the wires. Too loud inside to stay in the shadows. We’re all on Wi-Fi, but we’re silent, like it’s supposed to be that way. We live online. And in our eyes there’s only noise, we disappear into the heart offline, but the soul screams like a chapter. Where can I find my paradise if the world is clicks of words? I’ve seen kids who don’t know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise on the story here. Brother, we’re losing our roots, because we value untruth, and what we form. These filters are like masks on scars. We’re alive in the photos, but in life there’s drama. We’re trying to look better than we are, but happiness isn’t a pixel, it’s who’s here next to us. My lines are like a knife, cutting through the fog. I’m not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us into the stream. But if you feel pain, know that you’re not alone. And even if you’re lost, the world inside you is not a version of demo. Look at all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. We are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online, and in the eyes there is only noise, we disappear into the heart. Offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, it is not just a sound, it is a cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds, there is a way out. It is inside, not in the feed, in you. How love dies not with a scream, but with a whisper in rooms with echoing fur. First breath, then a phone, then nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if in debt you looked out the window. I will run into myself. There is nothing left, forgive me, there is nothing left, I love. Only you know, I will fade away in the ice later. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times where you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two. But the more you breathed, the faster the departure. I tried to understand where the beat goes wrong, where the music and feelings went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall. But I stayed with you in the walls too. You are like a song without words, I am like a beat without movement. We parted in the corners, like the fall of an overthrow. We didn’t burn out right away, but that’s more important. Love dies when no one hurts anymore. How love dies, not with a shot, but with rain on the glass, where there are no more of us. Like a silent train station without a ticket office, like a sunset that says goodbye. Without saying anything, wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life. Not with scandals, like a cup broken in a wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am already unloved. I remember your look, like a tired February. You were looking for spring, but you brought sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I am angry. You are tired of hoping that I will change. I smoked by the window, as if this is where you were saved. But you can’t hide the broken movement in the smoke. You were lying in bed, not next to each other, but we ate, but as if behind a curtain in another parallel we quietly left, just handed in our tickets. Into the film, where we were the finale of the film. The trees are not friends, just dust on glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness. I am not a saint, you are not a victim. We simply did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, the hour can still be heard in its silence. How love dies neither by death nor by thunder, but by steps in others with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on a hand. Not mine, but for you. How love dies without reasons and without quarrels. Just in a world where time erases space. And I am no longer yours, and you are not mine. But in our silence the pain is still alive. How love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. How are you? In the emptiness without farewell, without drama, without words, that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but in it the lines of fates have become crooked and the looks are empty. Brother, I see them, I dream of the living. Shadows on the walls, like a memory of pain. I’m not running, I’m standing at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but there’s lava inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet, I shoot out of shape. The truth is, it burned my fingers like a flame on a house, but I didn’t burn out. I became her warrior. Not for the air, not for rent. This is my path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric current under the shoulder blades. But I didn’t blow up, I became strong, like a fact. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete, I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe, this new day will not bother me. This is a new day. All your screams do not heal wounds. All this hate has become like mantras for me. Quieter at the start, I explode at the finish. I’m not in pursuit, I’m already a virus myself. Years flow through my veins like here, but I’m not frozen. I’ve become like foam. They’re crushing us from above, but we’re on the rise. Dust on the cross-country shoes, medals in the album. You wanted rap? Get what you deserve. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a beard. I’m not one of those who lose their phase. My verse is a shot into the future right away. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I don’t live for the hype of stories. My intellect is my territory. Each of my words is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write each new stroke from scratch. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not bother me. This is a new day. O. The light falls, I stand under it. I’m not a saint, but I’m not alone. The flame inside, I need smoke. To become yourself, you have to become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up and respect ourselves. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved himself when he was drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not shout at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on his chest? Who was on the run from himself in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive. Who changed cities, but did not run away from pain. Who built himself not by fashion, but by will. Who took the microphone when there was a storm in the heart? Who carried rhymes, like bullets in the forehead? Who was without a chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in the fruit? Who if thunder? Who, if all this, who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who if you are a brother? Who if all this is the one who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though he fell by morning. Who was homeless in a stranger’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when there is pain, like where? Who tells the truth when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond the edge, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn away later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but was resurrected without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Oh, who, if you are a brother, who, if all this? Who is left when everyone is gone? Who lives without losing themselves inside? Who are you? When the lights go out and no one calls, when everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who? Gran I go to the end, even if it is dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass, my thoughts, like a blade, cut. The knives in my track are not hits. This is a cry from the soul. Thousands of faces and not a single one of my own. I was looking for at least someone found only about her. Every step, as if on ice. Emptiness under me. But I believe in purity behind pain. I did not build palaces. I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there is no spring for a long time. But I believe in the fire that remained in the eyes. I go to the end. Even I will go to the end, without looking back. Let not water flow through the veins, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust, this is my crossroads, but I believe in the slope and darkness. It is possible to break into the air, I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life, it is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway trains. But I chose to go, even if there is trouble. My lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. It seems like an answer to those who did not notice. I am not an angel and not an executioner. I am only the one who is tired, but did not lie down, did not fall. I did not lie to myself. This is the main thing in the rhythm in hell, but with fire that will not perish yet. In this city, shadows replace faces in this heart, like ice. But it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and am silent, but I live. I will go to the end, without looking back. Let not water flow through the veins, but passion. Let everything be broken dust, this is my crossroads, but I believe through the darkness you can break out. In the air I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. A. A. ا ا break in silence, like children grow on a concrete wall. Like mothers wait, but do not hear the bell, and memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending. We change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone stays to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint. I myself fell to my knees at the bottom, under someone else’s psalm, but rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are dots in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it is important how much is in the account, but it is important who cries when you go into the void. We were all light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave again together, where pain, happiness are not enemies and brothers. Life is linear. It rolls in circles through dust and light, through fear and summer. One path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken gut. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies, it is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain through media dreams, we run for meaning, losing feelings, as if the soul is just a device. But I will try to live one day in warmth, not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. Everything was light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where pain is happiness, not enemies, brother. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the point. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, neither tears nor troubles. We are part of one river that flows through worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be human, this is the truth. Out loud. Everything will return, good and evil. breath. We are part of the universe, not a body, but a glow. And let everything pass, as this track will pass. A trace will remain, if there was light in it. In this smoke, the night dissolves, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am empty in the city. In the area, everything is in a circle, guys, concrete, spleen. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I have not drunk strong wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. It was my doping. Now even in other people’s clothes you look like a copy. The heart in compression presses, like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. I am not filled with alcohol. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit my rights. I’m in the hood, but not guf, you’re not a saint. You’re like a tolerant, at first it gets you high, then it doesn’t get you. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You’re my weakness, my antidotatrance, the light goes out, and I disappear, like smoky in my head your name still sounds the same . I fade, like a lamp in an empty entrance. You’re not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold, poor plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. You rode the hype, and on my thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, silence in headphones. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played love, and I lived in it without excess. In the area everything is still windy, balcony. You will not return, but I do not call reason. My world is gray asphalt and beats. You are like a filter in inshit, everything is beautiful, but not you. How many are false, I miss, how much pain in forgiveness. You are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I do not hold a grudge, I just do not believe anymore. You, like a cartridge in the chambers, killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidoran. The light goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But in my head your name still sounds. I fade like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot you remained my flashback in a cassette. I wish you freedom, the kind that can’t be in a photo. And so that you don’t hide from the truth in other people’s arms. I’m like a shadow, and you’re like a lighthouse. Once I saved, but now I don’t. I don’t need light, I’ve been in the dark for a long time. I don’t call God, he wasn’t in me. The world is like a noose, and I’m in it on my cheek. I’m writing this verse as if I’m saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother squeezed my veins? When my brother left without a chance for change, when the city screamed, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I looked for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles block the sermon, like a shot. I looked for him in myself, but found only silence, burning from within, as if I were pouring on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I am my own cross. On the shoulders of unbelief, concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write an ending here. Children die here so that someone would be silent. Where was God when it burned inside, when days are like nights, when there are prayers in the shadows, I don’t swear by it and I don’t ask heaven. I just read until a tear falls. Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind your back, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself. And the only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist, I survived in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh, when I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon in war. Do you hear the sound? This is not just a beat, this is the crispness of a dream that left without protection. I am not in the top, but in the hearts of those who dance with the shadow, and not with likes for success. Success. Where was God when it burned inside? When the days are nights, when the pollen in the shadows, I do not swear and do not ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. If you feel, then you are alive. It means that the rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I am not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I am just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just for eating, it is for living. People go here when everything collapses. Someone cries, someone is silent. In the kitchen will not return. In the kitchen, in the kitchen, in the kitchen, where time in both, like in wounds. We sit at night, confession on the sofas, like jury tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. Ashtray is full, thoughts with blood. Since childhood we learned not to believe in the future. With God, dreams smoke here, not letting the world go to the end. Neighbor from the fourth, third term, like a prisoner. Salt has crumbled, with it fate. You should have seen how your brother left in February to nowhere. We are not crying, our eyes are just tired. The word “love” has been replaced with “fallen” here. In the kitchen of the tender Khrushchev-era buildings, where dreams and echoes are stored, the salts of the road are scattered and milk is on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been different. But everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is law, but the soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance would not hear. There is a scream in every teapot, a protest in every look. Shoes are not taken off, which means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. Marriages and wars are decided in the kitchen, and a whole homeland is in a mug with a crack. My paradise passed here, they hang by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come to the kitchen.” Everything is like last year. In the kitchen in the careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where the dreams of descendants are stored, the paths of scattered salt and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been fine. Everything could have been fine, but it couldn’t. In the kitchen we lived as if it were our last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain human. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? Do you remember, I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a happy ending here. Here, everyone in armor has improved their minds with rap. I’m not trendy, I’m out. My lines aren’t just phrases, they’re bullets in time. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where there is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder beyond the scenes. It can be heard through millions. Only. Truth in trouble. The world doesn’t hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire is the essence, not vanity. I haven’t sold out, I haven’t forgotten. It means I’m alive, it means I live. I’m not a phantom from TikTok, I’m a cat on rusty concrete. My heart beats under Norsentsova, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I realized what the essence is. Rap is not flex and non-chain. This is the pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples, in the one who can do everything within himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are the chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot, but underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, nor in trends, nor in hit parades. I am in the eyes of the boys who dream of being near. I am in mistakes, falls, in every broken day, but I get up like dawn and breathe in fire. Only truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My lines are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this essence is not vanity. I am not sold, I have not forgotten. It means I am alive, it means I am alive. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light when the eyes are in smoke? Where is the top? If I myself do not understand, we build days from emptiness and screams. How much longer to be silent, when the soul is great? I see people with masks on their faces, but behind the smile there are wounds and fairy tales for me. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday, but tramples the good to climb out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are scrapped under a new bow, where love is like a commodity on a shelf online, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light, where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are running from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We are on the run as fathers to ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the border between lies and fear, where is the soul, which you can’t buy, for a price. We are in an era where feeling is weakness, and honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through, but the walls muffle the truth, so as not to break. Silence, friend G, it’s in fashion, but I’m moving forward, on the edge, not in code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They cannot be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it’s dark, the light is not outside. The light has been inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Those are the screams that the land will not drown out. We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not shadows, nor dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the scream that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not shadows, nor dust, but fate. If you hear, do not be silent, you are not alone, and I am not in the shadows. Shine in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it is in you. Time is slipping away like a shadow behind us, and we are still standing, as if this life is building. Those who made noise are long gone. I am still here, on the old edge. In the photo in the album Black and white quarter, where it smelled of concrete anital signal. There, instead of likes, there were cries of “Stop! And everyone had someone else under their shirt. Bars without neon, tobacco and concrete. Beats from a cassette tape, an iPhone again. Those who were nearby, they went to the end. They disappeared like a pixel from a face. The sound of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Those who lived without masks were doomed. Words were not kept for show, but so that the house did not sway under it. The era is gone, but the eyes remain. Voices blazed in concrete courtyards. We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remain, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in the veins. But in each of us there is a street scene, where you are my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like the concrete of icons. Texts on the walls are like an eternal tablet. We do not need likes, we need a steel morality. Gone in part, this noise came, but you will not replace the smell and strings for me. I am still the same with a face at the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of the shop windows. The era has gone, like a ship without a mother, took with it. Those who could remain silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With the era in our chests, but with a different border. This is not rap, this is an exhalation, this is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to Feng Shu, but like troubles. Like troubles. The era is gone, gone. We are still here. When I am gone, it will become quieter in the gateway. Where my voice was, only steps at an empty job, where I left my soul, now there is smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold strength in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say: “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear, like a look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out, when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? Let the last candle burn in the temple, when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle above the cross where my name is carved with an uneven knife? Who will understand what burned inside me when the world lived and I walked in the darkness? The words that I dropped into a notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the sterns and thunderstorms. Tell me what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom. What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? I am not afraid. I have already been below, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak as ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. in the evening on the pit to go to bed evening Cher in the window trembles not he. I was born in the bit, to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who you became? But I’m on fire among the ashes, like a tired phoenix. Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. No one burns your path, but silently holds the frame. I dreamed that I was falling from the roof, but the earth was erased by the night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I’m not here for glory, I’m here so as not to go crazy. While you like the photo, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight of silence. My language, I speak between the lines, you read if you are not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their cliche. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear volcano breasts. I have seen faith break in people. In myself, in words, as dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they beat with cold lead. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. I am not a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on drafts of those burned stronger. Generation of phones and likes on photos of pain. But where are you, when I was drowning in emptiness, did not sweep? My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with thread, but with a beaten rhythm. If the heart froze, then someone inside is killed. How many times have I written, so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept, so as to remain in the meaning. This is not a hit. This is the voice of the era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to become in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete into this eternal century. And while my voice is beaten, I am alive despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply simply mine. How many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, as if all over again. There’s a kettle in the kitchen, smoke in the window and thoughts without an ending. Why do I run every day, where does the path lead, if I don’t know who I am, how to choose anchors. There are hundreds of phrases in the phone, but not a single one is alive. All about business, everything is done sensibly. But someone with a head: “I don’t need applause, likes, false hype. I would like to understand why I’m here, until I go to heaven. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to rise with the end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever only until soon. I ‘m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards, I lost myself 100 times. I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I’m going where the light is, even though it’s barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in medals, I lost myself 100 times and found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The building of peaks, the goal is a step. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. On each turn a new one had to. You either swim or drown yourself, as you were. Fate is not a joke, this is a path without dubbing. You will not re-record a scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased the number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. And if suddenly I disappear, knowing, was not under contract, not on business, but for love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light. Even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself. Despite the blood, I go where the light is. Even if it is barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite to the blood. The goal is not the peaks, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice comes and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them is the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise. But in this chaos, you are my silence. My silence. Oh. Do you remember how we had conversations without words? Fingers tremble, as if there is a ringing in the heart. You are like midnight, where the stars burn for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of old books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain acquires meaning inside. I was nobody before you. Zero in the wind, but you gave me fire even in the fierce January. As long as you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them is the whole essence of you, my pain and love. As long as you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise. But in this chaos, you are my silence. My silence. You are like an exhalation, a moment where no one breathed. Between me and you there is no past. You are a scar like a chord that sounds between phrases. And each of your gestures is a meaning – jazz. I no longer search for why, for what and why you are my answer in this world. Where it is dark around, let everything change, collapse, melt. If you are near, this world does not die. As long as you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them is the whole essence of my pain and love. As long as you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos, you are my silence. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse goes by the priest. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes. Demir is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. My memory flies gloriously in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness. My verse goes by the priest. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. And today is an idle cry. Streets whisper to me again, cool down. But inside it’s like a fire, you can’t put out the gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t count them. Too much love, but I didn’t survive here. Somewhere out there is my double. He follows in my footsteps, but burns bridges. He is like me. Only the ghost of smoke. He won’t say breathe. He doesn’t know spring. I trampled the day like cigarette butts in the entrance. I looked for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response this world is like rap. Either a verse or a godmother. I believed the beat, it’s more alive. than any other place. This is my holy sin. To live without goals and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain and without dreams. This is my black rain, drops of pain without dreams. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory is flying in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without shelter. But my verse goes through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am nobody’s screaming at me, it’s not the light, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in a dark without a record. My verse flows through the veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear. Somewhere my brother is on the corner, in his eyes there is dust. Mom prays for us, but we are drowning in business. This beat is like a lantern that leads through the courtyards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Don’t hold any grudges or guilt against me. I just was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. Let the whisper from the speakers remind me of my style. In these lines is all the pain without a prefix. Sweet. If we suddenly meet, don’t look into my dreams. I will remain a beat. I’ll dissolve until spring. I ‘ll dissolve until spring. It’s not the light that pierces me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. But my verse flows through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call, I’m no one’s cry today. It’s not the light that pierces me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without novenas, my verse flows. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a cry. If I go out alone, don’t call, I’m no one’s cry today. You are ready to hear what sounds in the silence. It’s at the end. Listen, I’m not looking for likes. It is important for me that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I have seen endings on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last one on the eve of the bet, and scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I am learning not to fall, even when everyone around has fallen. How many times they betrayed me, I did not count, I counted. Shagimir hugs with a knife and smiles like a friend. I am a product of the street of pain, where a word is like a shot in the chest, where you pay for the truth with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone, what is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me, what is in the end. What is in the end? I am not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night is like the last fight. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like a razor’s gleam. The city changes faces, but the concrete stays with me. Here you can be anyone until you stand up for battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd. And those who were at the bottom, go like tanks through the darkness and everyday life. I did not sell style for trends, did not buy myself a role. My rhymes are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path and game are here. There is no button to start over. So either you burn like fire, or go out like a lamp in the dirt. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What is in the end, when money burns your peace? What is in the end? Tell me, what is in the end. What is in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but you will be forgotten on Monday. You can buy everything, but you will not buy further. So tell me honestly, what’s in the end. I’m not an idol, I’m a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals, how knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who remain silent are often closer to the soul. I’m in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it doesn’t lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when everything burns, where will you be? What’s in the end, when the smoke will dissipate, then everyone will leave, when you are left alone, tell me, what is in the end. What is in the end? How long does it take to understand that it is not eternal. How many times must you fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, it is not the packaging that glitters for, but rotten content. What do we waste our days on? Why do we live like this if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me, what is more important, to be or to seem. Would you stay yourself if everything broke. I have seen heaps of people who were burning with fire, and then sold their souls for likes and a home. And why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-off and guilt? How much does silence cost, honestly, inside, where is the line of good and when to cross? Live what is important, seven, love the faithful, rejoice in the little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak, live right. Only what is important, only what is important, only what is important, only what is important. Only the important, what is success, if you are alone, if you have everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks? Where is the path that you would call true? After all, we are looking for answers not where the question is. We burn bridges where love could be. Why do we accumulate grievances that eat away inside? Instead of forgiveness, we hold stones in our chest. When the last breath becomes closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? Victories or how you hugged your brother, how you said thank you when there were no words, as if you were there when the roof was falling apart. Live important, not necessary. Love the faithful, rejoice in little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only the important, only the important. Only the important, only the important. Only the important. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and are simply afraid to admit that the important is near, but it is not visible. It’s not too late, as long as you hear that you should live right. Shadows on the walls. A murky tape in a world where truth is only an experiment. Spikan. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like blades, night on a target. The city makes noise on the air like a demon. They judge for the truth, they are silent like in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, the soul on the glass. An exit without an exit, running on a loop. People go out like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead not from will. Squeeze. A word to the heart, like a crowbar nearer. Those who were already alive in the black silence, those who were faithful, sold out and left. Neither Balik nor faith will save us here. A veil on our eyes, like a chimera. We are running to nowhere, in these tracks and schemes. The light is at the end, only the world is in tunnels. Everything around is a veil, brother. I see right through. Who was with us from the bottom disappears as a guest in this world. Without a bottom, where there is no salvation cane. We go to the end, albeit slowly, vrock is a veil, but burned this darkness, rewrote its route, cut the trap. We are not alone. Even if our flag is torn by the winds, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, everything will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, and not just more raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. Didn’t take a handout, didn’t jump into the route, gave a beat, as if it were a parachute, a load on my back, but I did not give up the route, so that to the sky, even if the wings do not grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the darkness. Time does not heal, it just devours those, those who were looking for meaning drowned in emptiness. While others swim, we will emerge at the bottom. I am not a savior, I am just a fire that burns in silence. Under the yoke of pursuit. It’s not about style, it’s about essence and damage. My lines are like the truth in tone. Everything around is a veil, but I see myself. And whoever was near yesterday, left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But there’s concrete beneath us, and we hold our tone. Everything around is a veil, but y orbu this cat. I don’t believe in a game where there’s one turn. We were born in fire, water won’t save. If you yourself haven’t become light, then it’s not time. But I see the way through it. Even if the whole world is a court, I walk like many bodies in which there are no souls. With whom? Night, like a movie, but morning is like ink. Smeared truth on a pillow. Where were you nobody she a toy? You go out at night, leaving a ringing on the door. Bems without take care of yourself without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. There are so many faces, you can’t even remember their names. It’s empty for tomorrow. As if someone turned off the background. You’re searching again, but not for that. You want a look that will penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary. With whom you wake up and the whole world is good, with whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom the night is simply without words. But there are few, With whom silence is like blood. With whom it is not a game, not a pose, not a pose. With whomever you want. Tomorrow without falsehood you can live with anyone, as if together. Drink coffee in the morning, argue to the point of a gesture, go to the south, take pictures for the feed, put rings, live by inertia. You can be, but not love to listen, but not hear the scream inside. Everything according to the rules. Shared accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? A dream is already more difficult here. So that a snow leaf with her initial, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple of days. There are many with whom you can live as you should, but few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom it is not in the law, but in conscience purely with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But few with whom a blizzard is not scary, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter. with whom even the time spent is sweeter. And here it is, the whole point in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who at dawn, who stays, even if the pain with whomever you want tomorrow is not flogged, but with the soul. That’s how we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, we lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. There are many with whom to lie down. Few with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, and the beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, give me the beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is a voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse. Like a shot from the couch – this is what is inside. You can’t buy it for rubles – it’s not an hour’s hype, but a style for life. I don’t expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I don’t pretend that everything is behind me. Each text is like a bullet, it flies into the target. I’m not lying. It’s me, not an actor, not a shadow or a shade. It’s mine. You can’t take it away, break it, or burn it. My voice is like a pulse. It goes to meet you. It’s all mine, taken with suffering. My word is like the truth. The sharpened blade of a gaze. It’s mine. You can’t do anything about it, you can’t steal it. It’s the pain in the voice that learned to scream. It’s mine, and as long as I breathe, I won’t give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. My temple is the temple of mato, the choice is not to be like them, not to join the crowd, not to play on the string, these are wounds in the soul that are not visible in the frame, this is a fight without gloves for an idea, do not lock it up, mine is the flow that goes to the cut, without autotune, without masks, without unnecessary forest, every slot is made of fire, you did not understand me, I am like the world without a day, this is not just a rhyme, this is the meaning, a canopy is a nail, silence is an exit and stress, these are tears and anger that turned into blood, this is the cry of a generation that did not obey, this is mine . You can’t take away, you can’t break, you can’t burn my voice, like a pulse. It comes to meet. This is mine. Everything that was suffered was taken. My word is like the truth, sharpened by the blade of a gaze. This is mine. You can’t do anything about it, you can’t steal it. This is the pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine. And while I breathe, I will not give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. Temple. This is mine. While my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I will not ask, I will not sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like a dream. As if stuck between was and where. Time goes by, but I do not know where. The world is not an enemy, but it does not offer either. The heart beats like a banned watch. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like my last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. I am zen with bada inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look, if you hear, do not turn away. We are the same charge. Those who are silent know the value of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in half. Every light has its shadow. Every day has its night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name day, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat on my heels. Unchanged but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look without this truth inside. Let them not find me. But if you look, if you are silent, then you breathe. If you walk, then you are alive. And the name? It will still be erased. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence. I swim for the question. Dust falls on the shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by the light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I myself walked barefoot on glass, did not give in to the games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void. But I listened to my eye. It whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my older brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks, like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. There is no point in running in this vanity. We live to lie in the dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between the ashes and the voice, my path is at random. I got lost more than once, but got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If the light around is fading, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one who hides the inner darkness under a blanket, smiling outwardly, rotting from within. There are so many who have not been inside for a long time. Everyone is running for an answer, but they do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when you are on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but inside me. I whisper to the heavens, but I am silent to the people nearby, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have been lost more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between ashes and voice. My path and my cross. I don’t believe in the end. If the gas blows around, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. If you hear, it means you have lived. If it hurts, it means you haven’t forgotten the path. And while the eye inside hasn’t gone out, you are the light even in the ashes, even now. I saw time, how it tears into pieces, how boys burn, not having time to say: “Forgive me.” Concrete is silent, it knows more than prophets. My trace froze on it, like blood on the sleeve near the line. Here, every day is like a shot in the soul without a sight. Wings don’t save here, if the heart is made of metal. An old man on a bench silently smokes a cigarette. He was a hero until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in the five, which carries away without maples. A boy with a knife in his pocket. He is not a gangster, he is scared, but if the walls are pressing, he will cut his hand. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity is behind the garages, where the years are silent. Here, every step is like the final eye, even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Elk. I do not write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul is in words, like poison was sewn into a blade. Who wants eternity, it is not in the hall and not in the top, but in the eyes of those who did not sell themselves in bulk. I remember the yard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they are gone. Only photos remain in an old folder. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on a show-off, and someone rose like a phoenix with blood on their lips. We did not look for God, he looked for us under the bookmark, looked through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is near. We are just strangers in it. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step seems to be the final chord. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lord, I am not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style, like a knife, does not cut the air, only the truth on the edge of balance between light and longing, my soul is not sold, it left with a fighter, we are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but everyone carries in their hearts the power of eternal rebellion, and even if they do not believe, we have long been immortal in every verse, the cry of those who have long been gone, do not look for me in the charts, my truth is not there, I am the street where instead of a like there are glances, my rap is not for the sake of glory, but so that the memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame remains. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul, and you will understand without words. My path is like a load, my cross is like a cat. I am in the quarter where concrete slabs whisper, where forgiveness is a rarity, like light in orbit, where the boys rot for past mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was with them there, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where a knife in the back, no shot rules. And whoever survived is soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and spurts. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. They forgive in heaven, but here from under the sole, where children are buried under their mothers, it is sickening. And when you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. On me are crosses, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as is, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends, like machine guns in battle. Each is like a brother, but the final shovels. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith, if God turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles of reason. You can’t be alive here without leaving behind a birch, where forgiveness is. It’s not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. Come on, my scars. Not just a body story. These are chapters from books where the soul went numb. I went through hell and it didn’t forgive. I remained in debt to memory. The rear doesn’t cry here. They laugh in the face of agony and survive. Who will be the first to go for irony, who will betray completely, who will throw off the balance. But forgive me, you are ridiculous, brother, everyone is dangerous here. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me like on the walls of the zone. There is a genuine fire in these eyes. I live as I am according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent. I have long been doomed. My name is street. I am unforgiven. Do not ask me to be what I was not. My past is coals. In my soul there are only ashes, no one will come for me . No one with a white crown. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayers, as my brothers left. Ashes are ashes, but with pride in every ruin. Don’t wait for my tears, don’t believe in atonement. I left in this darkness of hopelessness for forgiveness. I am unforgiven not by will, but by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I seek myself in these faces. I cry my eyes out, but my soul is empty. And who am I for a world where only concrete reigns? Where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I am alone in the shadows? Where are my demons louder than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear. Who am I when they don’t believe in me? My brothers. Who am I if I have become a traitor to myself ? I am the one who fell and got up again. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Over and over and over and over. I am where the emptiness meets the light. The one who knows there is no way out. Over and over and over and over again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am an extension of pain, but I found myself in it. I am not a hero or an angel, I am simply alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those who were not heard. I am the truth that remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I will go with this. I am the one who fell and got up with me. I am the one who carries his pain in his heart. Over and over and over and over. I am where the emptiness meets the light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. Ye, over and over and over and over. Ye, in every step, in every breath, I am in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear as long as the heart burns. I am me and my path speaks. ا In old courtyards, where the asphalt is like a book, every hole is a story of pain, but somewhere in the drops, on the windows are the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light, in my mother’s words: “Don’t freeze, get dressed.” In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there behind the scenes of our tomorrow. In ripe cherries, in the silence of passages, in how we love in any weather. He is in every step, when you go nowhere, and everything inside whispers: “Live”, despite God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky, and both of us are not broken. He is not in icons, he is in cigarettes. In those that we share in the ghetto in the morning. In small hopes, in a cold entryway, in each one still alive and in each unflattery. He is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In a girl who walks barefoot through the train station, there God is not in gilding, but in her fatigue. In your thoughts, in your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in a role. Even when everyone has left and you are at zero. Open up Window, brother. He is near in the darkness. You can’t see God, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in the ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. You can’t see God, but I smell him when I die, but still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I talk to the sky, and we are both not broken. You will say: “I don’t believe”. I will say: “It doesn’t matter”. God is not a form, nor a court, nor a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not have been. He is in every rhyme that I put here. Are you not sleeping either? Too many questions. Yes. And the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen, where does honor end, and profit begins. If time heals, why am I burned out inside? Why are words like a blade, but you have not heard them? And why, when you love, do they only strangle you stronger? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for them so much? Why do lies warm us like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus? Even if the body is in themes, how much is conscience worth in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in mash? Why do children from the street grow up faster? And why do they put you in the cold in the body for a word? Questions hang in the air, like smoke from armor. How many times was he right, but remained guilty. Where to find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, can you hear? Silence is also loud. Questions. Why is there not always honor on shoulder straps? Why is the truth immediately punished on the neck? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness and who is in the law? If everyone is afraid of the truth, why is the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t you bring back your mother’s voice in childhood? And why are we silent when the heart cracks? If there is a meaning, where to look for it in this noise, why is there loneliness as if in a noise? Why, when you are alone in a dead end and how many times has your soul screamed in a bottle? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times was I right, but remained guilty. Where to find an answer if everything has already been sold? Brother, can you hear? Silence is also loud. Questions Where is that paradise that they shout about from the minaret? Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you are from the street, then who are you in life? If you are silent, it means you are sold out for principles. Why, when you die, only then is everyone close? Why do I love later than I should? There are no answers, and maybe there never will be. But if you are still here, you are not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like the Naugahyde Code. There is no Photoshop in this, no cheap themes. Here words like a sharp knife will not leave problems. They say in the area, like, a dangerous guy, but I just see the falseness, where you hear the beat, I don’t write for trends. I don’t need hype. There’s truth in my lines, in Skype lines. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent, then remained faceless. This is a street without light, but I see the track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my amulet. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they stand in the corner. Not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word nave gold from Pulberi. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My language is a gun, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in the frame of a movie. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still, how many faces I’ve seen that fell into lies, and I stood on the truth, even if not in power. My heart is cold, like February ice, but my soul is burning, as if in a cage it is about to take off. You read about Gucci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces I did not sell my soul. Not for a feat, not for cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Each syllable is a trace, like from a boot on a tile. This is not commerce, bro. This is malya. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, but are not put in a corner. Neither, nor a performance – this is a dirty route, where according to the word nave gold from the bullets of the shore. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My language is a gun, I take care of it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts like a cigarette, that to peplitis. I am not a fashionable author, I am like a judge in the dark. The word is my law, and I write about myself. I am the day from the lantern. Where there is no one? There I am. And do you hear me? Hardly. Tishena, my most honest interlocutor. Again the emptiness of the night. There is no longer either us, no yes. The city is buzzing, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world has arranged a bo for me. I look at the sky, as if at a black screen. There is no ending, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, as if. No matter how much you call, it would be the same. The bench creaks under me, like conscience. In this darkness I am a reflection of the story. All conversations, like an echo in concrete, I am myself and a chain of wills, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but do not warm anyone. I would like smoke in the sky. But it’s too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or a sentence. No matter how much you shout into the void, only the yard hears, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I drown, the world is paler. They did not want to understand, but they could not. They are open. I am like a city of dust, every step is against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain for me. People are like frames in a broken screen, flashed, disappeared, scars remained. I ask for neither love nor peace. It is enough for me to be alive without heroes. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to smoke into the sky. But it is too late. The wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or a sentence. No matter how much I scream into the void. Only the yards hear, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It does not matter. I am used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I do not write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. My word is an automatic machine, the rhythm is a stream of lights. I didn’t play heroes, but I kept my balance when the streets whispered further. This is your chance. All my lines are like a challenge to the system. Every truth is a bomb that tears a million voices on stage. But the truth is in one. I don’t pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I didn’t come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the kings of carrion console parts. I walked a tightrope without looking down. Every line is my life motto. On the beats as on the field, I am a fighter without counting. My verses are like the truth, bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in rhythm. I hit the chest of the era, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I didn’t come for likes. I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not to please. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it tightly. While the heart beats, I live forever. Indefinitely, live forever forever. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You are looking for salvation, it is in my lines. I turn pain into the music of the living. Forget about the format. I break the patterns. My tracks are like dreams, but without a veil. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. This is the truth. You can’t buy it, no matter how you spin it. This is not just rap, this is the last word. I am here to ignite, not to be ready. Each line is like a point-blank shot, I was born to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I will leave behind the lines. In them is the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I’m not trendy, I’m timeless like ashes in the wind. But my voice will live on, even if I die. Listen with your soul. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. The streets are concrete and melancholy in the background. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent, dad was drinking. But I became my own, I became like metal. Everyone says: “Be like everyone else, but why, if all these scars are in the system? I tried to be right, there was emptiness. Now in every verse there is my anger and dream. Micro, my torch. Rhymes like an explosion. I write as if this is my last stroke. The night in the area is quiet and sirens. We are the generation of a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. Where is my success? It is in a notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in problems and salt? Where is my faith on the back of the cops? But even in hell I hold my front. How many of us are here? Who of us is alive? Who did not give up when the world screamed live? Where is the love in these eyes without fire? You won’t understand if you haven’t been like me. I fly through the beat like a bullet in the skull. Through the dirt and concrete I hear trust. This is the street opposite TikTok and not dreams. This is where tears in the eyes of the boys are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If the heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can play. We took a break on the edge, in the air. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. I am not a star, I am not a blogger, not a genius. I am just the voice of the ghetto on stage, no matter how much pain there is inside. I rhyme to live, just like you. Listen, I don’t know where you will be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is a path. Keep it inside. Listen, be not the one who shouts, but the one who hears. In silence, too, the truth is purer. Look into the eyes of those who are near you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent in truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but in meaning, I get up to fly. And remember, do not be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like a light in the depths, I will be like a voice in the darkness, I will not be a shadow, but an essence. Even when I forget everything, I will be. I promise I will be. Do not look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a lock. Do not hide it in vain. He who truly loves always comes back himself. Believe, but do not love blindly, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If it suddenly becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you. You are also the fire. Appreciate those who are near not later, but in the moment. Life is handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that you breathe openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through ice. I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire. And I will not disappear later . I will be, I promise, I will be. We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok. The real world is like an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone. In the world, we have forgotten how to live without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without show-offs and shop windows. This verse is for those who are silent but burn. Our mothers pray that we don’t get lost, and we are in the algorithms that broke us. Can you hear my beat? This is a heart in wires. Too loud inside to stay in the shadows. We are all above it at Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online. And in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart offline, but the soul screams like a head. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and words. I saw children who do not know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise. To the story here, brother. We are losing roots. After all, we value untruth, and what we form. These filters are like masks on scars. In the photos we are alive, but in life there is drama. We try to look better than we are. But happiness is not a pixel, but who is here next to us. My lines cut the fog like a knife. I am not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us on the stream. But if you feel pain, know that you are not alone. And even if you are lost, the world inside you is not a version of demo. Look at all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. But we are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online, and in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart. offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, it is not just a sound, it is a cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds. There is a way out. It is inside, not in the feed in you. How love dies not with a scream, but with a whisper in rooms with a booming echo. First breath, then phone, then nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if in debt you looked out the window. I will run into myself. There is nothing left, forgive me, there is nothing left, I love. Only you know, I will play with him on the ice later. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times when you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two, but the more I breathed, the faster it went. I tried to understand where the rip went wrong, where the music and feelings went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall, but in the walls too I stayed with you. You are like a song without words. I am like a beat without movement. We parted in the corners, like the fall of the overthrow. We did not burn at once, but this is more important. Love dies when no one hurts more. How love dies not with a shot, but with rain on the glass, where there are no more of us. Like a silent train station without a ticket office, like a sunset that says goodbye, without saying wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life, not with scandals, a cup broken in the wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am already unloved. I remember your look, like a tired February. You searched in the spring, but brought only sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I am angry. You are tired of hoping that I will change. I smoked by the window, as if in this salvation. But you can not hide the broken movement in the smoke. You were lying in bed not next to, aeli, but as if behind a curtain in another parallel. We left quietly, just returned our tickets to the movie, where we were the finale of the film. Register friends, just dust on the glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness, you are not a victim. We simply did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, in its silence you can still hear the hour. How love dies not by death, nor by thunder, but by steps in others with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on a hand, not mine, but for you. How love dies without attribution. Simply in a world where time erases space. And I am no longer yours, and you are not mine. But in our silence everything is still Bolzheva. How love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. How are you? In the emptiness without goodbyes, without drama, without words, that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but the lines of fate have become crooked and the looks are empty. Brother, I see them, I dream of them alive. Shadows on the walls, like a memory of pain. I’m not running, I’m standing at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but there is lava inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet. I shoot out of shape. The truth burned my fingers like a flame on a house. But I did not burn out. I became its warrior. Not for the air, not for distribution. This is my path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric shock under the shoulder blades. But I did not deflated, I became strong, like a fact. This is a new day. This is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It is you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day won’t stop me. This is a new day. All your screams don’t heal the wounds. All this hate has become like mantras for me. Quieter at the start, I explode at the finish. I’m not in pursuit, I myself am already a virus. Years flow through my veins like here, but I’m not frozen. I became like foam. They press us from above, but we are on the rise. Dust on the crosses, medals in the album. You wanted rap? Get what you deserve. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a beard. I’m not one of those who lose the phase. My verse shot the future at once. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I do not live for the hype of stories. My intellect is my territory. Each of my words is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It’s you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase the plaster. If there was pain, I teach to breathe. This new day will not stop me. This is a new day. Oh, oh, the light falls, I stand under it. I am not a saint, but not alone. The flame is inside, and I need smoke. To become yourself, you must become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up and to ourselves. Respect. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved himself when he was drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not scream at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on his chest? Who was on the run from himself in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive? Who changed cities, but did not run away from the pain? Who built themselves not according to fashion, according to will, who took the microphone when there was a storm in the heart? Who carried rhymes, as if bullets in the forehead? Who was without a chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in the fruit? Who if thunder? Who if all this, who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? If you are a brother, who if all this, who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though they fell by morning. Who was homeless in a stranger’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when pain is like God? Who tells the truth when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond the edge, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn back later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but was resurrected without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Who, if you are a brother, who, if all this? Who remained when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who are you when the light goes out and no one calls? When everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who is the edge? I go to the end, even if it’s dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass, my thoughts, like a blade, cut knives. My tracks are not hits. This is a cry from the soul. Thousands of faces and not a single one of mine, I was looking for at least someone . Only about her, every step is like on ice. Emptiness under me. But I believe in purity for pain. I did not build palaces, I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there is no spring for a long time. But I believe in the fire that remained in my eyes and I go to the end. Even I will follow to the end, without looking back. Let not water, but passion flow through my veins. Let everything be broken. Dust is my crossroads. But I believe through the darkness. You can break out into the air. I will go to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway changes trains. But I chose to go even if it’s bad. My lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. Each time I weave as an answer to those who didn’t notice. I’m not an angel or an executioner, I’m just the one who’s tired, but hasn’t laid down, hasn’t fallen. I didn’t lie to myself. This is the main thing in the rhythm of hell, but with fire, what hasn’t yet perished, in this city, shadows replace faces, in this heart, like ice, but it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and am silent, but I live. I will go to the end without looking back. Let it not be water that flows through my veins, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust. This is my crossroads, but I believe that you can break through the darkness. I will go into the air to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I’m not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. Ah, ah. ا People break down in silence, like children growing on a concrete wall, like Teri’s mother waiting, but not hearing the bell, and memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending. We change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone remains to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint, I fell myself, on my knees, to the bottom, under someone else’s psalm, but rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are dots in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it matters how much is on the account, but it matters who cries when you go into the void. Everyone was light. We live in it, love, lose. We leave and again are together, where the pain of happiness is not enemies and brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken gut. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies. It is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain, through the media dreams, we run for meaning, losing feelings. As if the soul is just a device. But I will try to live one day in warmth, not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. All dust is the light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where pain is happiness, not enemies, brothers. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, neither tears, nor troubles. We are part of one river that flows through worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be human is the truth. Out loud. Everything will return, good and evil and breath. We are part of the Universe, not a body, and the radiance. And let it all pass, as this track will pass. A trace will remain, if there was light in it. In this smoke, the night dissolves, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am in an empty city. In the area, everything is in a circle, guys, concrete spleen. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I have not drunk strong wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. This was my doping. Now, even in other people’s clothes, you look like a copy. The heart in compression presses like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. I am filled with neither alcohol nor grass. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit my rights. I am in a hoodie, but not goofy, not holy. You are like a tolerancer, at first it gets high, then it doesn’t get you. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidotatrance, the light goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But your name still sounds in my head. I’m fading like a lamp in an empty entrance. You’re not here, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. You rode the hype, and on your thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, silence in the headphones. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played at love, and I lived in it without excess. In the area, everything is still windy, a balcony. You will not return, but I do not call for reason. My world is gray asphalt and beats. You are like a filter on the Internet, everything is beautiful, but not you. How much is false, I miss, how much pain, forgive me, you are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I do not hold a grudge, I just do not believe anymore. You, like a cartridge in the chamber, killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself by happiness. You are my weakness, my antidoran, the light goes out and I disappear like smoke. But your name still sounds in my head. I fade like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not here, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. I wish you freedom, the kind that is not allowed in a photo, and that you do not hide from the truth in other people’s arms. I am like a shadow, and you are like a lighthouse. Once I saved, now not so. was I do not need light, I have long been in the dark. I do not call God, he was not in me. The world is like a noose, and I am in it on the cheek. I am writing this verse, as if I am saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother squeezed her veins? When my brother left without a chance for change, when the city screamed, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I looked for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles, close the sermon, as if shot. I looked for it in myself, but found only silence, that burns from within, as if I were pouring on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I am my own cross. On the shoulders of unbelief, and concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write the ending here. Here children die so that someone would be silent. Where was God when it burned inside? When days are nightless, when there are seeds in the shadows, I don’t swear and don’t ask heaven. I just read until a tear falls. Where is the answer? Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind your back, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself. The only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist. I survived in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh. When I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon in the war. Do you hear the sound? This is not just a beat, this is the crunch of all the dreams that left without protection. I’m not in the top. But in the hearts of those who dance with the shadow, and not with likes for success. Success. Where was God when I was burning inside? When days are nightless, when I pray in the shadows, I don’t swear and don’t ask the sky. I just read until a tear falls. If you feel, then you’re alive. So, the rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I’m not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I’m just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just for eating, it’s for living. People go here when everything collapses. Someone cries, someone is silent. They won’t return to the kitchen. In the kitchen, in the kitchen, in the kitchen, where time is in both of us, like in wounds. We sit at night, confessing on the couches, like a jury’s tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. The ashtray is full, thoughts with blood. Since childhood we have learned not to believe in the future. With God, dreams are smoked here, not letting light in the window. A neighbor from the fourth, third term, like a prisoner. The salt has scattered, with it fate. You should have seen how my brother left for nowhere in February. We do not cry, our eyes are just tired. The word love here has been replaced by fallen. In the kitchen in the gentle Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams and echoes, scattered salt roads and milk on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been It could have been different. But everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is law, but the soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance would not hear. In every teapot there is a scream, in every look there is a protest. Shoes are not taken off, it means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. Marriages and wars are decided in the kitchen, and in the mug the cracks are the whole homeland. My paradise passed here, hanging by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come to the kitchen.” Everything is like last year. In the kitchen in careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams for descendants, the paths of scattered salt and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been good. Everything could have been good, but it could not. In the kitchen we lived, as if on our last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain people. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? Do you remember, I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a finale with a happy ending here. Here, everyone in armor has decorated their minds with rap. I’m not in trend, I’m outside. My lines are not just phrases, they’re bullets to the beat. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where there is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder behind the scenes. It can be heard through millions. Only . The truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire is the essence, not vanity. I have not been sold, not forgotten. That means I’m alive. That means I’m alive. I’m not a phantom from TikTok, I’m a cat on rusty concrete. The heart beats under the norsencova, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I realized what the essence is. Rap is not flex and non-chain. It is pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance, reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples, in the one who can do everything within himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are the chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot, but underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, not in trends, not in hit parades. I am in the eyes of the guys who dream of being near. I am in mistakes, falls, in every broken day, but I get up like dawn and breathe in fire. Only truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I took out of the fire, this is the essence, not vanity. I am not sold, I have not forgotten. It means that I am alive, it means to live. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light when the eyes are in smoke? Where is the top? If I don’t understand it myself, we build rot from emptiness and scream. How much longer should we remain silent when our soul is great? I see people with masks on their faces. But behind the smile there are wounds and fairy tales for me. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday, but tramples the good to climb out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are scrapped for a new bow, where love is like a commodity on a shelf online, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light, where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the scream that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the scream that the land will not drown out? We are on the run from our fathers to ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are neither shadows nor dust, and fate where is the border between lies and fear, where is the soul, that you cannot buy for the price list. We are in an era where feeling is weakness, and honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through. It’s just that the walls muffle the truth, so as not to break. Silence is a friend of lies, it is in fashion, but I go forward, on the edge, not in code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They cannot be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it is dark, the light is not outside the light is inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who did not sell their souls? Where is the scream? That the land will not drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are neither shadows nor dust, and fate where is the light, where are those who did not sell their souls, where is the scream that the land will not drown out. We are running from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. If you hear, do not be silent, you are not alone, and I am not in the shadow. Shine in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it is in you. Time passes, like a shadow behind. And we still stand, as if life is building it. Those who made noise, have long been out of the ranks. I am still here, on the old edge. In the photo in the album Black and white quarter, where the concrete smelled of Anidital signal. There instead of likes there were cries: “Stop!” And everyone had someone else under their shirt. Bars without neon, tobacco and concrete. Beats from the cassette again iPhone. Those, Those who were close, they went to the end. They disappeared, like a pixel from a face. The clatter of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Those who lived without masks were doomed. Words were kept not for show, but so that the house would not sway under them. The era has gone, but remained in the eyes. In concrete courtyards, lanterns in voices. We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remained, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in veins, but in each of us on the street scene, where you are my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like concrete icons. Texts on the walls like an eternal tablet. We do not need likes, we need steel morality. Gone in and partly, this noise came, but you will not replace the smell and strings for me. I am still the same with a face at the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of shop windows. The era is gone, like a ship without a mother, took it with it. Those who keep silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With the era in our chests, but with a different border. This is not rap, this is an exhalation. This is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to feng shui, but like misfortune. Like misfortune. The era is gone, gone. We are still here. When I am gone, it will be quieter in the gateway. Where my voice was, only steps at an empty job, where I left my soul, now there is smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold strength in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say: “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, there is no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear like a look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out, when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when my soul evaporates? The last candle in the temple will burn out when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle above the cross where my name is carved with an uneven knife? Who will understand what burned inside me when the world lived and I walked in the darkness? Those words that I dropped into a notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the sterns and thunderstorms. Tell me what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom. What will happen when I rise to the heavens? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle in the temple will burn out when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? I’m not afraid. I have already been down below, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak, like ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. in the evening on the beat falls the evening Cher in the window trembles not he. I was born in the beat, to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who have you become? But I am on fire among the ashes, like a tired phoenix.” Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. Who do not burn your path, but silently hold the frame. I dreamed that I was falling from the roof, but the earth is erased by the night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I am not here for glory, I am here so as not to go crazy. While you like the photo, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight of silence. My language, I speak between the lines, you read if you are not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming kings, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear a volcano chest. I saw how faith breaks in people. In myself in words, how dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they hit with the cold of faces. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. I am not a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on the drafts of those burned stronger. A generation of phones and likes on a photo of pain. But where are you when I was drowning? In the void they did not sweep. My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with a thread, but my rhythm is hammered in. If the heart froze, then someone inside is killed. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to remain in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not a style. fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as not to get tired I mean. This is not a hit. This is the voice of the era in melancholy. This is not a style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete, in this eternal century. And while my voice is in the bits, I am alive despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply my own. How many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, as if everything is starting over. There is a kettle in the kitchen, smoke in the window and thoughts without an ending. Why do I run every day, where does the path lead? If I don’t know who I am, how do I choose anchors? There are hundreds of phrases in the phone, but not a single one is alive. Everything is business-related, everything is smart. But someone with a head: “I don’t need applause, likes, false hype. I would like to understand why I’m here, until I go to heaven. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to rise with the end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever only until soon. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards, I lost myself 100 times, I found myself again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in medals, I lost myself 100 times, I found myself again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The building of peaks, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you’re still on the way, you’ve already won. At every turn, a new had to. You either swim or drown yourself, as you were. Fate is not a joke, it is a path without dubbing. You will not re-record a scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased the number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. If suddenly I disappear, knowing, was not under contract, not on business, but for love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light. Although it is barely every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I go where the light is, although it is barely every step is worth its weight in gold, even in blizzards I lost myself 100 times I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The goal is not peaks, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not a crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice comes and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the whole essence and my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. Oh, my silence. Oh, oh. Do you remember how we had conversations without words? Fingers tremble, as if there is a ringing in the heart. You are like midnight, where the stars burn for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of ancient books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain acquires meaning inside. I was nobody before you. Zero in the wind, but you gave me fire even in the fierce January. As long as you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice will melt and float. All these looks are like movies without words. But in them the whole essence is you, my pain and love. As long as you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. One hundred, stood, one hundred. You are like an exhalation, a moment where no one was breathing. Between me and you there is no past. You are a scar like a chord that sounds between phrases. And each of your gestures is the meaning of jazz. I no longer search for why, for what and why you are my answer in this world. Where it is dark all around, let everything change, collapse and melt. If you are near, this world does not die. As long as you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, the ice will melt and float. All these looks are like movies without words. But they are the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Let millions of people you are the only one for me. I do not understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. It is not light that penetrates me, it is just a beat. My memory flies gloriously in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse goes to chant. Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes. Demir is a glitch. If I go out alone, do not call. I am no one’s cry today. It is not light that penetrates me. It is just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without offense. My verse goes to Popov . Do not ask, do not judge, do not call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. And today, no one’s scream. The streets whisper to me again, cool down. But inside, like a fire, you can’t put out gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t count them. Too much love, but I didn’t survive here. Somewhere out there is my double, he follows in the footsteps, but burns bridges. He is like me, only a ghost of smoke. He won’t say breathe. He doesn’t know spring. I trampled the day like cigarette butts in the entrance. I looked for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response, this world is as strong. Either a verse, or a godmother. Believed the beat is more alive. of all places. This is my holy sin. To live without goals and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain, without dreams. This is my black rain, drops of pain without dreams. It is not the light that pierces me , it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across the cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a trace. But my Steve runs through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s scream. It’s not the light that pierces me, it’s just the beat. Like my memory in parts, in grains, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without a trace. My verse runs through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s scream. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear. Somewhere my brother is on the corner, in his eyes there is ashes. Mom prays for us, but we are drowning in deeds. This beat is like a lantern that leads through the yards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Don’t hold any grudges or guilt against me. I simply was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. Let the whisper from the speakers remind you of my style. In these lines is all the pain without a prefix. Sweet, if we suddenly meet, don’t look into my dreams. I will remain a beat, I will dissolve until spring. I will dissolve until spring. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of ink we are like children in a darkness without offense. But my verse goes through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call me today, no one’s cry. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just offense. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in the darkness without my verse running through our veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I’m not screaming. Are you ready to hear what sounds in the silence? It’s at the end. Listen, I’m not looking for likes. It’s important to me that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I’ve seen endings on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last one on the eve of bets and scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I’m learning not to fall, even when everyone around has fallen down. How many times I’ve been betrayed, I didn’t count, I counted. Shagimir hugs with a knife and smiles like a friend. I’m a product of the street of pain, where a word is like a shot in a heap. You pay for the truth with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What’s in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what’s in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What’s in the end, when money burns your peace? What’s in the end? Tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? I’m not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night seems like the last battle. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like a razor’s shine. The city changes faces, but the concrete stays with me. Here you can be anyone until you get up to battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd. And those who were below, go like tanks through the darkness and everyday life. I did not sell my style for trends, I did not buy myself a role. My rhythms are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path is not a game, there is no button to start again. So either you burn like fire, or go out like a lamp in the dirt. What is in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what is in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone, what is in the end, when money burns your peace. What is in the end? Tell me what is in the end. What is in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but you will be forgotten on Monday. You can buy everything, but you will not buy more. So tell me honestly, what is in the end. I am not an idol, I am a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals. How knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who are silent are often closer to the soul. I’m in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it doesn’t lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when everything burns out, where will you be. What in the end, when the smoke clears, then everyone will leave, when will you be alone? Tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? How much does it take to understand that it doesn’t last forever. How many times do you have to fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, not for this. The packaging is shiny, but the content is stuffy. What do we spend our days on? Why do we live like this if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me what’s more important. To be or to seem. Would you stay yourself if everything broke. I’ve seen a lot of people who were burning with fire, and then sold their souls for likes and a home. Why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-offs and guilt? How much does silence cost, honestly, inside, where is the line of goodness and when to cross? Live important, not important, love the faithful. Rejoice in the little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only important, only important, only important. Only important, only important. What is success if you are alone? If you have everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks. Where is the path that you would call true? After all, we are looking for answers not where the question is. We burn bridges where love could be. Why do we accumulate grievances that eat away inside? Instead of forgiveness, we hold stones in our chests. And when your last breath becomes closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? Victories or how you hugged your brother, how you said thank you when there were no words, how you were there when blood was falling. Live what is important, not what is unnecessary, love the faithful, enjoy the little, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live correctly. Only what is important. Only what is important. Only what is important. Only what is important. Only what is important. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and you are just afraid to admit that what is important is nearby, but it is not visible. It is not too late, as long as you hear that life is right. Shadows on the walls. A murky ribbon in a world where truth is only an experiment. Spatikan. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like a blade at night on a target. The city makes noise on the air like a demon. They judge for the truth. They are silent as in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, the soul on the glass. An exit without an exit, running on a loop. People go out like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead not from pain. Otzhi. A word to the heart, like a crowbar between. Those who were alive already in the black silence, those who were faithful, sold out and left. Neither Balik nor faith will save us here. A veil on our eyes, like a chimera. We are running to nowhere in these tracks and schemes. Light at the end, only peace in the tunnels. Everything around is Belena, brother. I see right through. Those who were with us for a long time, disappear like a guest in this world of abyss, where there is no salvation. We are going to the end, albeit slowly, a veil of vrock, but I burned this darkness, rewrote my route, cut the trap. You and I are not alone. Even if our flag is torn by the wind, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, you will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, not just pain. Raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. I didn’t take a serve, I didn’t jump into the route, I gave a beat, as if it were a parachute. Gru behind my back, but I didn’t give up the route, so that it would reach the sky, even though wings don’t grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the dark. Time doesn’t heal, it just eats those, those who were looking for meaning, drowned in emptiness, while others are swimming, swimming at the bottom. I’m not a savior, I’m just a fire that burns in silence. Under the yoke of pursuit. There is no forgiveness here, there is damage to the essence. My lines, like the truth, in tone. Everything around is a veil, but I see myself. Who was near yesterday, left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But under us is concrete, and we hold our tone. Everything around is a veil, but y orbu this cat. I do not believe in a game where there is one turn. We were born in fire, water will not save. If you yourself have not become light, then it is not time. But through it I see the way. Even if the whole world is a court, I go. How many bodies in which there are no souls. With whom the night is like a movie, but the morning is like ink. Smeared truth on the pillow. Where you were nobody it is a toy. You go out at night, leaving a ringing on the door. Besms without take care of yourself without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. There are so many faces, you can’t even remember their names. It’s empty for tomorrow, as if someone turned off the background. You’re searching again, but don’t forget. You want a look that will penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary. With whom you wake up and the whole world is good. With whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom the night is simply wordless, but there are few with whom silence is like blood. With whom there is no game, no pose, no poses with whomever you want. Tomorrow without falsehood you can live with anyone, as if together. Drink coffee in the morning, argue to the point of a gesture, go to the south, take pictures for the feed, put rings, but live by inertia. You can be, but not love to listen, but not hear the scream inside. Everything according to the rules of common accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? It is already harder to dream here, so that the snow leaf with her initial, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple of nights. There are many with whom you can live as it should be, but few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom not by law, but in conscience pure, with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But few with whom a blizzard is not scary, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter, with whom even the past is sweeter. And here it is the whole essence in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who at dawn, who stays, even if there is pain, with whom you want, tomorrow not by role, but with soul. That’s how we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, we lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. There are many with whom to lie. Few with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, and the beat. I will enter the city without roofs like a storm. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, give me the beat. I will enter the city without roofs like a storm. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is the voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse. Like a shot from a couch – this is what inside cannot be bought for rubles. This is not hype for an hour, but a style for life. I do not expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I do not pretend that everything is behind me. Each text is like a cartridge, it flies into the target. I do not lie, I am not an actor, not a shadow and a shadow. This is mine. You can not take away, nor break, nor burn. My voice is like a pulse, it goes to meet. This is my everything, taken through suffering. My word, like the truth, the sharpened blade of a glance. It’s mine. Can’t be helped, can’t be stolen. Hey, the pain in my voice, that it learned to scream, it’s mine. And while I breathe, I won’t give it up. Every line, like a flame, is my temple. My temple, my temple. Mako, this choice is not to be like them. Not to join the crowd, not to play on the string. These are wounds in the soul that are not visible on camera. This is a fight without gloves. Don’t steal for an idea. Mine is the flow that goes into the cut. Without autotune, without masks, without unnecessary forest. Each syllable is like a blow, like a sip from the fire. You didn’t understand me. I am like a world without a day. This is not just a rhyme, this is a meaning canopy. This is a nail, silence. This is an exit and stress. These are tears and anger that turned into blood. This is a scream. Generations that did not obey. Whoa! This is mine. You can’t take away, you can’t break, you can’t burn my voice like a pulse. It’s coming towards you. This is all mine, taken with suffering. My word is like the truth, the sharpened blade of a glance. This is mine. You can’t do anything about it, you can’t steal it. Eh, the pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and while I breathe, I won’t give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. The temple is mine. While my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I won’t ask, I won’t sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like in a dream, as if I’m stuck between what was and where. Time goes by, but I don’t know where. The world is not my enemy, but it does not offer. The heart beats like a banned watch. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last sip. But while I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name, with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. I know with a bad guy inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look. If you hear, do not turn away. We are the same charge. Those who are silent know the value of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in half. Each light is entitled to a shadow. Each day has its own night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last sip. But as long as I breathe, I will not retreat on my heels. The new house inside is unchanged. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look at this with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I follow my mother. If you are silent, it means you are breathing. If you walk, it means you are alive. And the name? It will be erased anyway. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence, I swim after the question. Dust falls on shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I myself walked barefoot on glass, did not give in to games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void, but I listened to my eye, it whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my older brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks, like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. In this vanity there is no point in running. We live to lie in the dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between the ashes and the voice my path is at random. I got lost more than once, but got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it faded, I will not give up on myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If the surroundings fade, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is a contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one who hides the inner darkness under the blanket, smiling outwardly, rotting from the inside. There are so many who have not been inside for a long time. Everyone is running for an answer, but they do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when you are on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but inside me. I whisper to the skies, but I am silent to the people nearby, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have been lost more than once, but I rose without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between the ashes and the voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If the surroundings are fading, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is a contrast. If you hear, then you are alive. If there is pain, then you have not forgotten the path. And while the eye inside has not faded, you are the light even in the ashes, even now. I have seen time, how it tears into pieces, how boys burn, not having time to say: “Forgive me.” Concrete is silent, it knows more than the prophets. My trace froze on it, like blood on the sleeve near the line. Here, every day is like a shot into the soul without a sight. Wings don’t save you here, if your heart is made of metal. An old man on a bench silently smokes a cigarette. He was a hero until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death, not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in a five-piece, which takes away without maples. A kid with a knife in his pocket. He is not a gangster, he is scared, but if he presses on the walls, he will cut his hand. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity is behind the garages, where the years are silent, here every step is like the final lambing. But even those do not remember who lost in this dusty struggle. I do not write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul is in words, like poison was sewn into a blade. Whoever wants eternity, it is not in the hall and not in the top, but in the eyes of those who did not sell themselves wholesale. I remember the courtyard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they are gone. Only photos in an old folder remain. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on a show, and someone rose like a phoenix with blood on their lips. We did not look for God, he looked for us under the bookmark, looked through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is near. We are just strangers in it. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step seems to be the final chord. But even those do not remember who is the lord in this dusty struggle. I am not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style, like a knife, does not cut the air, only the truth on the blade of balance between light and melancholy, my soul is not sold, it left with a fighter, we are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but everyone carries in their hearts the power of eternal rebellion, and let them not believe, we have long been immortal. In each verse, the cry of those who are long gone. Do not look for me in the charts. My truth is not there. I am the street, where instead of a like, there are glances. My rap is not for glory, but so that the memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame remains. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul and you will understand without words. My path is like a burden, my cross is like a cat. I am in the quarter where concrete slabs whisper, where forgive. It is rare, like light in orbit, where children rot for past mistakes. And mothers will lose their voice alive. I was with them there, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where a knife in the back, no shot rules. And whoever survived, he soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and spurts. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. Everything is forgiven in heaven, but here from under the soles, where children are buried under their mothers, sickening. When you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not beg for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. There is a genuine fire in these eyes. I live as I am, according to dark laws. And let the sky be silent, I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. I dropped friends like machine guns in battle. Each one is like a brother, but in the finals, shovels. Tell me, why do we need salvation from faith, if God turned away, as if he does not believe? I keep my feelings in shackles to reason. You can’t be alive here without leaving nicks. Where is forgiveness? It is not in use here. Here you will be forgiven only when you are in the ground. Come on, my scars. Not just a story of the body. These are chapters from books where the soul went numb. I went through hell, but it did not forgive. Remained in debt to memory. The rear does not cry here. The agony laughs in the face and survives. Who will be the first to go for irony, who will betray completely, who will throw off the balance. But forgive me, you’re funny, brother, everyone here is dangerous. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live as I am, according to the dark laws. And let the sky be silent. I have long been doomed. My name is the street. I am unforgiven. Do not ask me to be what I was not. My past is coals. In my soul there are only ashes , no one with a white crown will come for me. My place is where there is cold and black concrete. I will leave without prayers, as my brothers left. Ashes are ashes, but with pride in every collapse. Do not wait for my tears, do not believe in atonement. I left in this darkness. Without hope for forgiveness. I am not forgiven either by will or by truth. And my path is singing, not flowers at a parade. I am looking for myself in these faces. I will cry my eyes out, but my soul is empty. And who am I for the world where only concrete reigns? Where every second person talks about money and bullets? Who am I when I’m alone in the dark? Where my demons are louder than prayers in a dream? Who am I if there are only empty eyes nearby? If the truth cuts harder than any tear? Who am I when they don’t believe in me? My brothers. Who am I if I became a traitor to myself? I am the one who fell and got up again. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. Me again and again, again and again. I am there, where emptiness meets light. The one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again I am. A reflection of the streets that raised me. I am a continuation of pain, but I found myself in it. I am not a hero and not an angel. I am just alive. My scars are a map. My path is always crooked. I am the voice of those no one heard. I am the truth that remained under layers of false roofs. I will not leave as long as there is breath in my chest. I know who and I must go with this. Oh, I am the one who fell and rose as me. I am the one who carries my pain in my heart. I am again and again, again and again. I am where the void meets the light. I am the one who knows there is no way out. Again and again, again and again. In every step, in every breath, in these streets, in this era, I will not disappear, as long as the heart burns. I am me and my path speaks Oh. In old yards. Where the asphalt is like a book. Every hole is a story of pain, but somewhere in the drops, on the windows are the answers to the roles. I see God in the morning light, in my mother’s words: “Don’t freeze, get dressed.” In bread crumbs, in tea without sugar. He is somewhere there, behind the scenes of our tomorrow. In ripe cherries, in the silence of passages, in the way we love. In any weather. He is in every step when you go nowhere. And everything inside whispers: “Live.” In spite of God is not visible, but he is behind your back. In the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of a downpour, in ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him when I die. But I still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky, and we are both not broken. He is not in the icons, he is in the cigarettes. In those that we share in the ghetto in the morning, in small hopes, in a cold entrance. In each one he is still alive and in each unflattery. He is not in greatness, he is in forgiveness, in how a brother gives you the last. In a girl who walks barefoot at the train station, there God is not in the gilding, but in her fatigue. In your thoughts, in your pain. He is like a shadow, not visible, but in the role. Even when everyone has left and you are at zero. Open the window, brother. He is nearby in the darkness God is not visible, but he is behind the back in the gaze of a passerby, in the phrase “wait”, in the smell of the rain, in the ashes and phrases. He is in this track, in your stories. God is not visible, but I smell him when I die. But I still smoke. In these verses, in this rhythm with concrete, I speak to the sky. And we are both not broken. You will say: “I do not believe.” I will say: “It does not matter.” God is not a form, not a court, not a piece of paper. He is in the fact that you are alive, although you should not be. He is in every rhyme that I put here. Are you not sleeping either? Too many questions. Yes, and the answers are silent. Well, brother, listen. Where does honor end, and profit begin. If time heals, why is it burned out inside? Why are words like a blade, but you did not hear them? And why, when you love, do they only strangle more? Who are we here, people or functions in the system? If the truth is bitter, why do we thirst for them so much? Why do lies warm us, like lanterns over the wall? And why is the soul in the minus, even if the body is in themes? How much does conscience cost in dollars or in fear? If God is with us, why in the dirt, like in a braga? Why do children from the street grow up faster? And why do they put you in the cold for speaking? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer? If everything has already been sold, brother, do you hear? The silence is also loud. Questions about why there is not always honor on shoulder straps? Why does the truth immediately give you a slap on the neck? Who came up with the idea that loyalty is weakness, and who is in the law? If everyone is afraid of the truth, why is the quietest, the most dangerous? And why is friendship like a product at the checkout? Why can’t you bring back your mother’s voice in childhood? And why are we silent when the heart cracks? If there is meaning, where can you look for it in this noise? Why is loneliness like in the noise? Why, when you are alone in a dead end and how many times has your soul screamed in a bottle? Questions hang in the air like smoke from armor. How many times have you been right, but remained guilty. Where can I find the answer if everything has already been sold? Brother, do you hear? The silence is also loud. questions where is that paradise that they shout about from the minaret. Why are there familiar silhouettes in hell? If you are from the street, then who are you in life? If you are silent, it means that you have sold out for your principles. Why, when you die, is everyone nearby only then? Why do I love later than I should? There are no answers and maybe there never will be. But if you are still here, you are not alone. Questions remain. I write in Russian. This is not a fashion, brother. This is a style where every shot is like a code at random. There is no Photoshop in this, no cheap themes. Here the words are like a sharp knife. They will not leave problems. In the neighborhood they say, like, a dangerous type, but I just see falsehood where you hear a beat, I do not write for trends. I do not need hype. There is truth in my lines, and in your lines there is Skype. I knew guys who fell for their language. And everyone who was silent, then remained without a face. This is a street without light, but I see a track, like a cross on the neck. Heavy, but my amulet. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they stand in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word, gold from pulberig is imposed. I write in Russian. Everything is clear here, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a pistol, I take care of it. There is no need for pathos here, I am not in a movie frame. My vocabulary is like a bullet, silently, but still. How many faces have I seen that fell into lies, and I stood on the truth, even if not in power. My heart is cold, like February ice. But my soul burns, as if in a cage it is about to take off. You read about Guci, I am a broken entrance, where one on one with trouble without a drop of faces did not sell my soul. Not for a feat, not for cash. My rap is like a sentence, like a prison sketch. Each syllable is a trace, like from a boot on a tile. This is not commercial, bro. This is male. I write in Russian, like a knife on glass. My lines are not for likes, they are put in the corner. Not a game, not a performance, this is a dirty route, where, according to the word nave, gold from the bullets of the shore. I write in Russian here everything is clear, bro. This is the voice of those who are silent, but in the heart there is a threshold, like a stone in the bosom, like a scar on the forehead. My tongue is a pistol, I cherish it. You will hear the truth, even if this track hurts like a cigarette, that before ash. I am not a fashionable author. I am like a judge in the darkness, my word is my law. And I write about myself. I am this day from the lantern, where there is no one, there I am. And do you hear me? Hardly. Silence, my most honest interlocutor. Again night and emptiness. There is no we, nor Yes left here. The city is buzzing, but inside there is zero. As if the whole world arranged for me bo. I look at the sky, as if at a black screen. There is no ending, there is an eternal wound. Friends were erased, like us. No matter how much you call, the bench would still creak under me, like conscience. In this darkness I am a reflection of the story. All conversations, like an echo in concrete, I myself and the chain will. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to throw smoke into the sky. But it is too late. The wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence, no matter how much I shout into the void. Only the yard hears, people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Give me more than one chance, but I am too thin, the world is paler than ever. They wanted to understand, but they could not. They are open. I am like a city of dust. Every step is like against the wind. I knew the answers, but I forgot the question. Where the sun shines for others, only stripes remain for me. People flashed like frames in a broken screen, the scars disappeared. I do not ask for love or peace. It is enough for me to be alive without heroes. I am always alone, like a lantern on the corner. I light the way, but I do not warm anyone. I would like to throw smoke into the sky. But it is too late, the wind whispers my name in the yard. I am always alone. This is my choice or my sentence. No matter how much you shout into the void. Only the courtyards hear, the people nearby, but their eyes are empty. And I walk along it, as if this is my world. Let there be a trace on the asphalt, if tomorrow there will be no me. It does not matter. I am used to being myself in this darkness. Always alone, but not already, but in myself. I do not write tracks, I leave a legacy. A voice through time, an eternal warning. The world trembles under the bass, the meaning presses on the chest. My lines are not music, but a spiritual path. I was born in pain, grew up among the shadows. The word is my machine gun, the rhythm is a stream of lights. I did not play heroes, but kept the balance, when the streets whispered further. This is your chance. All my lines are like a challenge to the system. Each truth is a bomb that tears a million voices on the stage. But the truth is in one. I do not pour water, I burn with fire. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Each rhyme is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes. I burned the silence. I saw my brother sell his soul for cash, like the carrion kings in the comfort section. I walked the tightrope without looking down. Every line is my life motto. On the beats as on the field, I am a fighter without count. My verses, like the truth, are bitter and pure. Rhymes are not just rhymes. They are lightning in rhythm. I hit the chest of the era, so as not to be forgotten. This is not just rap, this is the last word. It contains all my anger, my pain and foundation. Every rhyme is like a knife on glass. I did not come for likes. I burned the silence. And let time change heroes and fashion, but the truth is eternal, it is not for the sake of. The microphone is like a sword, I hold it firmly. While the heart beats, I live indefinitely. Indefinitely indefinitely. Indefinitely. Words are like ammunition. I shoot accurately. On the sheets of fate, every verse is a mark. You seek salvation, it is in my lines. I turn pain into music of the living. Forget about the format. I break the template. My tracks are like dreams, but without a veil. This is the voice of the streets, this is the voice inside. It’s true. You can’t even buy it. Don’t spin it. This is not just rap. This is the last word. I’m here to light up, not to be ready. Every line, like a point-blank shot, I came into the world to fight back. If I suddenly disappear, I will leave behind me the lines. In them the pulse of the streets and the sharp bumps of truth. I am not in trend, I am out of time, like ashes in the wind. But my voice will live, even if I die. Listen with your soul. Listen with your soul. เฮ Listen with your soul. Against the backdrop of the streets, concrete and melancholy. Here, every dreamer seems to be in a vice. Mom is silent, dad drank, but I became my own. I became like metal. Everyone says: “Be like everyone else, but why, if all these scars are in the system? I tried to be right, there was emptiness. And now in every verse there is my anger and dream. Micro, my torch, rhymes like an explosion. I write as if this is my last stroke. Night in the area, silence and sirens. We are the generation of a broken system. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a break on the edge, on the weight. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I am at home in this track. Where is my success? It is in a notebook and pain. Where are my brothers in problems and salt? Where is my faith on the backs of the cops? But even in hell I hold my front. How many of us are here? Who of us is alive? Who did not give up when the world screamed for a Jew’s love in these eyes without fire? You will not understand if you were not like me. Through the beat I I’m flying like a bullet in the skull. Through the dirt and concrete I hear trust. This is the street opposite TikTok and not dreams. This is where tears in the eyes of the boys are like smoke. And let them say: “Nothing will be achieved, but I will rise if necessary.” Listen, kid, know that your path is not over. If your heart is pounding, it means the fight is not over. We took a break. The world seems to be on pause. Time does not heal, it just erases. Everyone lives as best they can, plays. We took a pose on the edge and in the air. Mom, don’t wait for me for dinner again. I’m at home in this track. I’m not a star, I’m not a blogger, not a genius. I’m just the voice of the ghetto on stage. No matter how much pain there is inside, I rhyme to live like you. Listen, I don’t know where you’ll be, but I know you exist. This is not a sentence, this is the path. Keep it inside. Listen, don’t be the one who screams, and to those who hear. In silence, too, the truth is purer. Look into the eyes of those who are near you. There is a reflection of God and scars and pain. Cherish silence as the last truth. People lie with words, but are silent in truth. Look for depth. Not in the feed, but in the sky, in the dust, on the window, in the shadow, on the wall. Let your path not turn because of fear and wind. Be like a stone in the river, patient and whole. Fall, but I get up with a thought to fly. And remember, do not be afraid to dream, be afraid to fall. I will be like a light in the depths, I will be like a voice in the darkness, I will not be a shadow, but an essence. Even when I forget everything, I will be. I promise I will be. Do not look for answers, live with questions. Time is not an enemy, but a song in the palm of your hand. The heart is not a lock. Do not hide it in vain. He who truly loves always returns himself. Believe, but do not love blindly, but without cages. Freedom without conscience is just a coin. If it suddenly becomes dark, like in the eyes of war, remember, the candle is you, and the fire is you too. Appreciate those who are near, not later, but in the moment. Life is handwriting, not a draft. And write it so that it breathes openly, so that in old age you do not lie to yourself. I will be like a memory through the bed. I will be like a voice to the people. I will be an innumerable fire. And I will not disappear later . I will be, I promise, I will be. We wake up in stories, fall asleep in TikTok. The real world is like in an abandoned block. More friends online than in your own apartment. But when the soul is burning, you are still alone in the world we have forgotten how to live without checking the screen. Forgotten how to feel. Only a like is a plan. I write how I live, without show-offs and shop windows. This verse is for those who are silent, but burn. Our mothers pray that we do not lost, and we in the algorithms, that we are broken. Can you hear my beat? It’s a heart in the wires. Too loud inside to stay in the shadows. We are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online, but in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart offline, but the soul screams like a head. Where to find your paradise? If the world is clicks of words, I saw children who do not know the yard, but know how to build a fake paradise on the story here, brother. We are losing roots, because we value untruth, and what we form. These filters are like masks on scars. In the photos we are alive, but in life there is drama. We try to look better than we are. But happiness is not a pixel, but who is nearby here. My lines are like a knife, cutting through the fog. I’m not a blogger, not a clown, I’m just a kid. The world has deceived us, thrown us into the stream. But if you feel pain, know that you are not alone. And even if you are lost, the world inside you is not a version of demo. Erase all the lies. You are more than statistics, bro. Well, well, we are all at the bottom of Wi-Fi, but we are silent, as if it should be so. We live online, and in the eyes only noise disappears in the heart. Offline, but the soul screams like lava. Where to find your paradise? If the world is a click and glory, if you hear, this is not just a sound, this is the cry of generations that are looking for each other in empty feeds, there is a way out. It is inside, not in the feed, in you. How love dies not with a scream, but with a whisper in rooms with echoing fur. First breath, then a phone, then nothing. We were silent more and more often, as if in debt you looked out the window. I will run into myself. There is nothing left, forgive me, there is nothing left, I love. Only you know, I will fade away in the ice later. Our photos in the dust, like a relic from the times when you laughed, and I was not a stone, but a dream. We shared one oxygen for two. But the more I breathed, the faster the departure. I tried to understand where the beat gets lost, where from music and feeling went to the backbeat, where you became different, where I became a wall. But I also stayed with you in the walls. You are like a song without words. I am like a beat without movement. We parted in the corners, like the fall of overthrow. We did not burn out at once, but this is more important. Love dies when no one hurts more. How love dies, not with a shot, but with rain on glass, where there are no more of us. Like a silent train station without a ticket office, like a sunset that says goodbye. Without saying wait. How love dies slowly in everyday life. Not with scandals, like a cup broken in a wash, like a notebook without pages, like a breath in the back. You are still near, but I am no longer loved. I remember your look, like a tired February. You were looking for spring, but brought sadness. You were silent more and more often. Not because I am angry. You were tired of hoping that I would change. I smoked by the window, as if this was salvation. But you can’t hide a broken movement in smoke. You were lying in bed, not next to me, but ate, but as if behind a curtain in a different parallel. We didn’t leave loudly, we just returned the tickets. A film where we were the finale of the film. Dereks are not friends, just dust on the glass. Love does not scream, it melts in the darkness. I am not a saint, you are not a victim. We simply did not become what we dreamed of in beautiful stories. And even though there are no more of us in this song, in its silence you can still hear the hour. How love dies neither by death nor by thunder, but by steps in others with a new meaning and home. Like a dried bouquet in someone’s old window, like a ring on my hand. Not mine, but for you. Like love dies without reasons and without quarrels. Just in a world where time erases space. And I’m no longer yours, and you’re not mine. But in our silence the pain is still alive. Like love dies not in tears, but in the fact that no one writes anymore. How are you? In the emptiness without goodbyes, without drama, without words, that same love leaves. I wake up, as if for the first time. The city is still the same, but the lines of fate have become crooked and the looks are empty. Brother, I see them, I dream of them alive. Shadows on the walls like a memory of pain. I don’t run, I stand at the control. Where there was a minus, I brought it to zero. The heart is like a cube, but lava is inside. Thoughts are cartridges in a clip. A word is like a bullet, I shoot out of shape. True, it burned my fingers like a flame on a house, but I did not burn out. I became her warrior. Not for air, not for distribution. This is my path without a script, brother. Life hit me like an electric shock to the shoulder blades. But I did not deflated, I became strong, like a fact. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you lost yourself in the night, learn to fall asleep. If you erased to holes, write from scratch. Each new stroke. It is you, not me. This is a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete, I erase the captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not interfere with me. This is a new day. All your screams do not heal the wounds. All this hate has become like mantras for me. Quieter at the start, I explode at the finish. I am not in pursuit, I myself am already a virus. The years flow through my veins like here, but I am not frozen. I have become like foam. They press us from above, but we are on the rise. Dust on the crosses, medals in the album. You wanted rap? Get what you deserve. The meaning in the rhyme is not just a burr. I am not one of those who loses the phase. My verse is a shot into the future right away. My soul cannot be redeemed. Sorry, I do not live for the hype of history. My intellect is my territory. Each of my words is like a signal on repeat. This is a new day, this is a new path. If you have lost your way at night, learn to fall asleep. If you have worn out to holes, write from scratch each new stroke. It’s you, not me. It’s a new day. There are no more walls. I broke through the concrete. I erase captivity. If there was pain, I teach you to breathe. This new day will not stop me. It’s a new day. O. The light falls, I stand under it. I’m not a saint, but I’m not alone. The flame inside, I need smoke. To become yourself, you have to become mute. A new day is not a reason to run away, but a reason to go and not die. Each of us is a scar on fate, but we still get up and respect ourselves. Who will remain if everyone leaves? Who remembers the truth when everyone lies? Who? Who saved himself when he was drowning without hands? Who sat at the bottom, but did not scream at the sound? Who taught to be silent, so as not to be spotted in the circle? Who wore emptiness, like a bulletproof vest on his chest? Who was on the run from himself in a straight line? Who lived without a goal, but walked as if alive. Who changed cities, but did not run away from pain. Who built themselves not by fashion, but by will. Who took the microphone when there was a storm in the heart? Who carried rhymes, as if bullets in the forehead? Who was without a chance, but survived like a cat? Who wrote lines out of rhythm in fruit? Who if thunder? Who, if all this is the one who remained, when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who if you are a brother? Who if all this is the one who remained, when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who did not believe, but went to court. Who did not break, even though he fell by morning. Who was homeless in someone else’s house, but did not ask anyone for bread or a corner. Who laughs when pain, like GD? Who tells the truth when anger is more profitable? Who reads the world by shadows and dreams, and not by numbers, likes and names? Who was beyond, but remembers the path? Who walked on glass, so as not to turn away later? Who survived in concrete words without feelings? Who died inside, but rose without a burden? Who? Who, if you did not get up? Who? Who, if everything is the end? Who, who did not betray, when he could have been saved? Who remained human here? Oh, who, if you are a brother, who, if all this? Oh, who remained, when everyone left? Who lives without losing himself inside? Who are you? When the light goes out and no one calls, when everything is decided not by a like, but by a sigh. Who? Gran I go to the end, even if it is dark, even if everything inside is silent, like glass, my thoughts, like a blade, cut. The knives in my track are not hits. This is a cry from the soul. Thousands of faces and not a single one of my own. I was looking for at least someone, I found only about her. Every step, as if on ice. Emptiness under me. But I believe in purity for pain. I did not build palaces. I burned my dreams. Where my heart is, there has been no spring for a long time. But I believe in the fire that remains in my eyes. I go to the end. Even I will go to the end, without looking back. Let it not be water that flows through my veins, but passion. Let everything be broken into dust, this is my crossroads, but I believe through and with the darkness. I can break into the air, I will go to the end. Let my soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life, it is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. The world changes people, like the subway trains. But I chose to go, even if there is trouble. My lines are like a bridge between darkness and light. They burn as an answer to those who did not notice. I am not an angel and not an executioner. I am only the one who is tired, but did not lie down, did not fall. I did not lie to myself. This is the main thing in the rhythm of hell, but with fire that will not perish yet. In this city, shadows replace faces in this heart, like ice. But it still beats. And while it beats, I stay afloat. I go to the end and keep silent, but I live. I will go to the end without looking back. Let it not be water that flows through us, but passion. Let everything be broken and dusty, this is my crossroads, but I believe that you can break free through the darkness. I will go into the air to the end. Let the soul get tired, but while I write, I am not afraid of silence. It is more than life. It is higher than fear. I go to the end, even with pain in my hands. Ah, ah . People break down in silence, like children growing on a concrete wall. Like mothers waiting, but not hearing the bell, and memory keeps only traces of a scarf. We repeat everything. Groundhog Day without an ending. We change bodies, but the essence is the same spiral. Someone leaves like a spark, and someone stays to live, but as if in a cage. I am not a saint. I fell to my knees, to the bottom, to someone else’s psalm, but rose again not for the sake of glory, but to become myself, and not someone else’s truth. The world is a circle, and we are points in it. Every heartbeat is like a whisper in the kidney. You think it’s important how much is in the account, but it’s important who cries when you go into the void. We were all light, we live in it, we love, we lose. We leave again together, where pain and happiness are not enemies and brothers. Life is linear. It rolls in circles through dust and light, through fear and summer. One path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the essence. Only love gives the soul a route. I heard how they pray in the dark. Not about heaven, but about saving children. Not about miracles, not about a temple with a dome, but so as not to be left with a broken gut. And the truth is, it does not scream at rallies, it is in actions, in the eyes of parents, in silently giving water. When the whole world drinks pain through media dreams, we run for meaning, losing feelings, as if the soul is just a device. But I will try to live one day in warmth, not because of money, but simply outside. I saw death not as an image of a scythe, but as silence that comes with longing. But I saw life in the tears of a newborn and understood, the path is more than gold. All dust is the light, we live in it, love, lose. We leave and again together, where pain is happiness, not enemies, bro. Life is linear, it rolls in circles. Through dust and light, through fear and summer, one path leads us, but without an answer. We are eternally in a circle, and this is the point. Only love gives the soul a route. And maybe everything is not in vain, neither tears nor troubles. We are part of one river that flows through worlds. And if you hear, do not live in vain. To be a human, this is the truth, out loud. Everything will return, good and evil and breath. We are part of the universe. Not a body, but radiance. And let everything pass, as this track will pass. A trace will remain, if there was light in it. In this smoke, the night dissolves, like you and me. You are with your friends in stories, and I am in an empty city. In the area, everything is in a circle, guys, concrete spleen. You are like a seasoning for pain, but I have not drunk spicy wines for a long time. I remember how I laughed. It was my doping. Now even in someone else’s clothes you look like a copy. The heart in compression presses, like a sound. I live on echoes, and you on fashionable posts. Filled with not alcohol. It’s just that each of your likes seems to hit my rights. I’m in a hood, but not a slob, not a saint. You’re like a tolerant, at first it gets you high, then it doesn’t get you. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidote. The transvestite goes out, and I disappear, like smoke. Your name still sounds in my head. I fade, like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. You rode on the hype, and on your thoughts. You in restaurants, I in trams, in headphones. Silence. We sounded like tracks and went out. You played at love, and I lived in it without excess. In the area, everything is still wind, balcony. You will not return, but I do not call reason. My world is gray asphalt and beaters. You are like a filter in an insheet, everything is beautiful, but not you. How many are false, I miss, how much pain, forgive me. You are a gift for someone, for me a reason to drink. I do not hold a grudge, I just do not believe anymore. You are like a cartridge in a chamber, you killed everything without a sight. And until the morning I collect myself piece by piece. You are my weakness, my antidote, the light goes out, and I disappear like smoke. But in my head your name still sounds. I fade away like a lamp in an empty entrance. You are not there, but your ghost seems to be everywhere. In this cold concrete plot, you remained my flashback on a cassette. I wish you freedom, the one that is not allowed in a photo. And so that you don’t hide from the truth in other people’s arms. I’m like a shadow, and you’re like a lighthouse. Once I saved, but now it’s not so. I don’t need light, I’ve been in the dark for a long time. I don’t call God, he wasn’t in me. The world is like a noose, and I’m in it on my cheek. I’m writing this verse as if I’m saying goodbye to myself. Where was God when my mother was squeezing my veins? When my brother was leaving without a chance for change, when the city was screaming, but was empty inside. When believing is a luxury, and love is a burden. I looked for him in churches, there was only business there. Candles block the sermon, like a shot. I looked for him in myself, but found only silence, burning from within, as if I were pouring it on an old wound. I don’t need icons, I’m my own cross. On the shoulders of unbelief, and concrete stress. This world is not a novel, they don’t write an ending here. Children die here so that someone would be silent. Where was God when it burned inside? When days are nightless, when there are millets in the shadows, I don’t swear by it and I don’t ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. Where was God when a friend sold his conscience, when there are no people behind you, but an empty sound, when you are alone with yourself. The only temple is a notebook at hand. My poems are blood, not style. I am not an artist. I am a survivor in the street dust, when I forgot how to laugh, when I froze on the corner, when I chose rhyme as a weapon in war. Do you hear the sound? It’s not just a beat, This is the crunch of all the dreams that left without protection. I’m not in the top, but in the hearts of those who dance with the shadow, and not with likes for success. Where was God when it burned inside, when the days are the devil of the night, when the prayers are in the shadows, I don’t swear and don’t ask the heavens. I just read until a tear falls. A tear. If you feel, then you’re alive. It means that the rhyme is stronger than bread and motive. I’m not a saint, not a hero, not a strict righteous man. I’m just the voice of those who asked where God was. The kitchen is not just where they eat, they live. People go here when everything collapses. Someone cries, someone is silent, and the kitchen will never return. In the kitchen, in the kitchen, in the kitchen, where time is in both of us, like in wounds. We sit at night, confession on the couches, like a jury’s tea without sugar. Mom is silent, dad with love. An ashtray full of thoughts with blood. Since childhood we learned not to believe in the future. With God, dreams are smoked here, not letting go to the end of the world. A neighbor from the fourth, third term, like a prisoner. The salt has crumbled, fate with it. You should have seen how my brother left for nowhere in February. We do not cry, our eyes are just tired. The word “love” was replaced with “fallen” here. In the kitchen in the delicate Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams and echoes, the salt of the road is scattered and milk on the lips, like eras. Everything could have been different, but everything could have been different. But everything could have been. There is no GPS in these walls. We were lost in truth. The word is legal. The soul seems to be under arrest. We whisper about pain, so that the entrance does not hear. In every teapot there is a scream, in every look there is a protest. Shoes are not taken off, which means there is tension in life. We sleep in turns, so as not to drop the flag. Marriages and wars are decided in the kitchen, and in the mug with a crack there is a whole homeland. Here my paradise passed and hangs by my side. And when I feel bad, I call again and whisper: “If anything, come to the kitchen.” Everything is like last year. In the kitchen in careful Khrushchev-era buildings, where the repository of dreams for descendants, paths of scattered salt and milk on the lips, like pictures. Everything could have been good. Everything could have been good, but it couldn’t. In the kitchen we lived, as if on the last day. Not for likes, not for scenes, but to remain people. You know, if you get tired, come. Do you remember where I am? Do you remember , Oh, I woke up in a concrete trap, where thoughts drown every day, like a paragraph in a novel. But the author is filled with pain. They don’t write a finale with a happy ending here. Here everyone in armor has decorated their minds with rap. I’m not in trend, I’m outside. My lines are not just phrases, they are bullets in time. My rhymes are like a jury trial. If you lie, then collapse. I go where the system is silent, where there is no truth in the law. But my voice is like thunder behind the scenes. It is heard through millions. Only just. Truth in trouble. The world does not hold us anywhere. My stricts are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this is the essence is not vanity. I am not sold, not forgotten. So, alive. So, alive. I am not a phantom from TikTok, I am a cat on rusty concrete. The heart beats under the norsencova, but not in the feed, but in pursuit. I ran from myself for decades until I understood what the essence is. Rap is not flex and non-chain. It is pain that tears the chest. My lines are like resonance, reflected in the eyes of passers-by. My faith is not in temples in someone who can do everything in himself. This is not a glamorous broadcast. These are the chronicles of the street of dreams. Where the voice sounds like a shot, but underneath it is love. I am not in numbers, not in trends, not in hit parades. I am in the eyes of the boys who dream to be near. I am in mistakes, falls, in every broken day, but I rise like dawn and breathe in fire. Only truth is on beta. The world does not hold us anywhere. My lines are a shield. Freedom speaks in them. Everything that I brought out of the fire, this is the essence, not vanity. I am not sold, I have not forgotten. It means I am alive, it means I am alive. Let me forget all the names, but they will not forget the truth. I am here, I was. Where is the light, when the eyes are in smoke? Where is the top? If I do not understand myself, we build days from emptiness and screams. How much longer to remain silent, when the soul is great? I see people with masks on their faces, but behind the smile there are wounds and fairy tales to me. Everyone dreams of being higher than yesterday, but tramples the good, to get out of the fallen. I look out the window, there is a world where plastic rules, where feelings are scrapped for a new bow, where love is like a commodity on a shelf online, and conscience is just a tank that prevents you from living inside. Where is the light, where are those who have not sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land will not drown out? We run away from ourselves, but the light does not go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who have not sold their souls? Where a cry that the land won’t drown out? We’re running from ourselves to ourselves, but the light doesn’t go out, as long as you’re not a shadow or dust, but fate, where’s the line between lies and fear, where’s the soul, that you can’t buy for a price. We’re in an era where feeling is weakness, and honesty is a diagnosis, not goodness. I tore my voice to get through, but the walls muffle the truth, so as not to break. Silence is a friend of lies, it’s in fashion, but I’m moving forward, on the edge, not in code. Stars are falling, desires are dead. They can’t be saved if dreams are turned away. But I believe, even if it’s dark, the light is not outside. The light has been inside for a long time. Where is the light? Where are those who haven’t sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land won’t drown out? We’re running from ourselves, but the light doesn’t go out, as long as you’re not a shadow or dust, but fate. Where is the light? Where are those who haven’t sold their souls? Where is the cry that the land won’t drown out? We are on the run from ourselves, but the light doesn’t go out, until you are not a shadow, not dust, but fate. If you hear, don’t be silent, you are not alone, and I am not in the shadow. Shine in the sky, not in the temple, not in the star, it is in you. Time passes, like a shadow behind us, and we still stand, as if this life is building. Those who made noise have long been out of the ranks. I am still here, on the old edge. In the photo in the album Black and white quarter, where the concrete smelled of Anidital signal. There, instead of likes, there were cries of “Stop!” And everyone had something different under their shirt. Bars without neon lights and concrete. Beats from a cassette tape again iPhone. Those who were nearby, they went to the end. They disappeared, like a pixel from a face. The clatter of boots on puddles, like a metronome. Those who lived without masks were doomed. Words were kept not for show, but so that the house would not sway under them. The era has gone, but the eyes remain. In concrete courtyards, lanterns in voices. We are children of the roads between light and darkness. With the era in our souls, but no longer with you. Time has devoured those who were the core. Fragments remain, like in the chronicles of the past. Change in pockets, memory in veins. But in each of us there is a street scene, where you are my brother, we were fire. Now your portrait is like concrete icons. Texts on the walls like an eternal tablet. We do not need likes, we need steel morality. You have partly gone, this noise has come, but you will not replace the smell of strings for me. I am still the same with a face at the shop windows. I look at the era through the drops of shop windows. The era has gone, like a ship without a mother, took with it. Those who could remain silent. We are children of fire, but we walk under the snow. With an era in the chest, but with another boundary. This is not rap, this is an exhalation, this is not a verse, this is a trace, this is not a style, these are views of those who lived not according to Feng Shu, but like misfortune. The era is gone, gone. We are still here. When I am gone, it will become quieter in the gateway. Where my voice was, only steps at an empty job, where I left my soul, now there is smoke and emptiness. Only concrete and memory hold strength in strong mouths. Those who knew me will not suddenly remember. Maybe someone will fill a glass and say: “He was a friend.” But there is no fire, no way back. I will close my eyes and disappear like a look. Tell me, what awaits in the darkness and how to get out, when at the bottom? What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? Let the last candle burn in the temple, when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? Will the birds circle above the cross where my name is carved with a jagged knife? Who will understand what burned inside me when the world lived and I walked in the darkness? The words that I dropped into a notebook, they will become dust on the shelf and will be silent. And at that moment, when the heart freezes without tears, I will become the wind between the sterns and thunderstorms. Tell me what awaits in the darkness and how to get out when at the bottom. What will happen when I rise to the sky? What will happen to me if I close my eyes? What will happen when the soul evaporates? The last candle will burn out in the temple when they forget my name forever. What will happen to me if I close my eyes? I am not afraid. I have already been below, where death is not an enemy, but a familiar sound. Let my trace be weak as ash, but I lived, and the flame burned to the bottom. in the evening on the pit to go to bed veche Cher in the window trembles not he. I was born in the bit to stay alive in it. The world is a film, a kodak, where we are frames without a soul. Each verse is like a shot, but with a silencer of fate. The street whispers: “Forget who you were, who have you become? But I am on fire among the ashes, as if the Phoenix is tired.” Friends are not those who are near, but those who silently saved. No one burns your path, but silently holds the frame. I dreamed, I was falling from the roof, but the earth is erased by night. And fear is like an old oath that you broke away. I am here not for fame, I’m here to keep from going crazy. While you like photos, I erase myself to zero. Pain as a style, style as a fight, silence. My language, I speak between the lines, you read if you’re not used to it. The world is a chessboard where pawns dream of becoming kings, but kings rot faster than they can be replaced. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their stamp. I am the voice of those who are silent, but wear a volcano chest. I saw how faith breaks in people. In myself in words, how dreams suffocate on concrete crossroads of dust. Here they do not shoot with bullets, here they beat with cold lead. Here children grow up quickly through pain, not through principle. I am not a saint, not a hero. Just a shadow of ideas that remained on the drafts of those burned stronger. Generation of phones and likes on photos of pain. But where are you, when I was drowning in emptiness, did not sweep? My notebook is psychotherapy without a prescription. Each line is like an exhalation in a room without light. I sew my scars not with a thread, but with a beaten rhythm. If the heart froze, then someone inside is killed. How many times have I written, so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept, so as to remain in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not style. This is a fight for yourself in a line. How many times have I written so as not to go off the rails, how many times have I not slept so as to stay in the sense. This is not a hit. This is the voice of an era in melancholy. This is not a style, this is a fight for yourself in a line. This is my last frame without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. This is my last frame. Without a take, without editing. My lines are like sparks on the ashes of a mirage. Let them say: “He was strange, but I am not their strain.” I am the voice of those who are silent, but carry a volcano in their chest. If tomorrow does not come, let the track remain, like a letter through concrete, in this eternal century. And while my voice is beaten, I am alive despite the heat. Neither a hero nor a saint. I was simply my own. How many years, so many circles in a spiral. The goal is somewhere out there or all this is past. I wake up in silence, like As if everything was starting over. There’s a kettle in the kitchen, smoke in the window, and thoughts with no end in sight. Why do I run every day, where does the path lead, if I don’t know who I am, how to choose anchors. There are hundreds of phrases on my phone, but not a single one is alive. All on business, all sensible. But someone with a head: “I don’t need applause, likes, false hype. I’d like to understand why I’m here before I reach paradise. The goal is like a mirage beyond the horizon. And every step seems to lift me up with the end. And every friend is already almost familiar. And I don’t believe in forever anymore, just until soon. I’m going where the light is. Even though it’s barely, every step is worth its weight in gold. Even in snowstorms, I’ve lost myself 100 times. I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. I’m going where the light is, even though it’s barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in storms, I’ve lost myself 100 times . I found it again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The building of peaks, the goal is the goal, the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. At every turn there had to be a new one. You either swim or drown yourself, as you were. Destiny is not a joke, this is a path without dubbing. You will not re-record the scene if the soul is gone. I saw those who chased the number on the dial, but remained empty, although they were in every chat. I chose to be quiet, but with full content, without loud words, but with a blow to the breath. And if suddenly I disappear, knowing, I was not under contract, not on business, but out of love. Let this path not be bright, not in the limelight, but in these lines is my goal, my dream. I go where the light is. Even if it is barely. Every step is worth its weight in gold, even in snowstorms I lost myself 100 times and found myself again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood, I go where the light is, although it is barely every step is worth its weight in gold, even in snowstorms I lost myself 100 times and found myself again. My goal is to be myself, despite the blood. The goal is not the peaks, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. The goal is not the peak, the goal is not the crowd. The goal is the path, when the soul burns inside. If you are still on the way, you have already won. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice sets and floats. All these looks seem movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise. But in this chaos, you are my silence. Oh, my audibility. Oh. Do you remember how we had conversations without words? Fingers tremble, as if there is a ringing in the heart. You are like midnight, where the stars burn for two. I am lost in you, like in the poems of old books. You are like a reason to leave myself, where even pain acquires meaning inside. I was nobody before you. Zero in the wind, but you gave me fire even in the fierce January. While you are near in the sky, the sun lives. Even in the cold, the ice melts and floats. All these looks are like movies without words. But they contain the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. Through millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. My silence. You are like an exhalation of a moment where no one was breathing. Between me and you there is no past. You are a scar like a chord that sounds between phrases. And each of your gestures is jazz. I no longer search for why, for what and why you are my answer in this world. Where it is dark around, let everything change, collapse, melt. If you are near, this world does not die. While you are near, the sun lives in the sky. Even in the cold, ice sets and floats. All these looks are like films without words. But in them is the essence of my pain and love. While you are near, I live without breathing. The essence of millions of people, you are the only one for me. I don’t understand how I found you in the noise, but in this chaos you are my silence. It is not the light that pierces me, it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, grain by grain, flies across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. My poem goes with the prayer. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes. Demir is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. It is not light that breaks through me – it is just a beat. As if my memory in parts, in grains, flies across cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in a darkness without offense. My poem goes with the prayer. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. And today is an idle cry. The streets whisper to me again to cool down. But inside it is like a fire, you can’t put out gasoline. Too many mistakes, and I can’t count them. Too much love, but I did not survive not here. Somewhere there is my double. He follows in the footsteps, but burns bridges. He is like me. Only a ghost to the smoke. He will not say breathe. He doesn’t know spring. I trampled the day like cigarette butts in the entryway. I looked for an answer in the eyes. Those who lied to me in response, this world is like rap. Either a verse or a godmother. I believed the beat, it’s more alive than all the places. This is my holy sin. To live without goals and words. This is my black rain, drops of pain and without dreams. This is my black rain, drops of pain without dreams. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory is flying in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness, uninhabited. But my verse runs through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory is flying in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls we are like children in a haze without a record. But my verse runs through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call. Today I am no one’s cry. Every sound is a scar. Every drum is fear. Somewhere my brother is on the corner, in his eyes there is ashes. Mom prays for us, but we are drowning in business. This beat is like a lantern that leads through the courtyards. I lost myself in rap in clubs in the kitchen. As if the world is a song, and I am in it by ear. Don’t hold any grudges or guilt against me. I just was and disappeared, like traces of a wave. Let the whisper from the speakers remind me of my style. These lines contain all the pain, my dear. If we meet, suddenly don’t look into my dreams. I will remain a beat. I will dissolve until spring. I will dissolve until spring. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without offense. But my verse flows through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in my schemes, where the world is a glitch. If I go out alone, don’t call me today, no one’s cry. It’s not the light that breaks through me, it’s just a beat. As if my memory flies in parts, grain by grain, across my cheeks. In the dungeons of souls, we are like children in the darkness without a request. But my verse flows through my veins. Don’t ask, don’t judge, don’t call. I was lost in the smoke, in their schemes, where the world is a cry. If I go out alone, don’t call today nobody’s cry. Are you ready to hear what sounds in the silence? It’s at the end. Listen, I’m not looking for likes. It’s important to me that the lines live. My rap is like cold asphalt under the feet of the era. I’ve seen finals on faces where there were no words. Where boys dream, but have lived without dreams since childhood. Every day is like the last one on the eve of the stakes and scars. If life is a ladder, here are the steps in a concrete pit. Mom is silent, dad is in the void, like a shadow by the wall. I’m learning not to fall, even when everyone around has fallen. How many times they betrayed me, I didn’t count, I counted. Shagimir hugs with a knife, smiles like a friend. I am a product of the street of pain, where a word is like a shot in the chest, where you pay for the truth with fate, but you can’t turn back tomorrow. What’s in the end, when the smoke clears and the essence remains, what’s in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone, what’s in the end, when money burns your peace? What’s in the end? Tell me, what’s in the end. What’s in the end? I’m not a saint, I just know how fear smells in the soul, when every call at night seems like the last battle. My demons are not silent, they write me every text. And in every verse there is truth that cuts like a razor’s shine. The city changes faces, but the concrete stays with me. Here you can be anyone until you stand up for battle. Everyone who is always first disappears under the noise of the crowd. And those who were below, go like tanks through the darkness and everyday life. I did not sell my style for trends, I did not buy myself a role. My rhymes are like bullets that fly not past into pain. My path is not a game here. There is no button to start again. That either you burn like fire, or go out like a lamp in the dirt. What’s in the end, when the smoke clears and what’s left is the essence, what’s in the end, when your voice tears off the microphone? What’s in the end, when money burns your peace? What’s in the end? Tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? You can live fast, but everyone’s ending is slow. You can be a legend, but you’ll be forgotten on Monday. You can buy everything, but you won’t buy more. So tell me honestly, what’s in the end. I’m not an idol, I’m a witness to how ideals rot, how glamorous fakes sell their morals, how knives grow on fragile hope. And how those who remain silent are often closer to the soul. I’m in concrete, but I breathe. Not in trend, but alive. And my voice is like a gun, it doesn’t lie, it knocks. The world changes covers, but does not change the essence. So tell me yourself, when everything burns out, where will you be? What’s in the end, when the smoke clears, then everyone will leave, when you’re left alone, tell me what’s in the end. What’s in the end? How long does it take to understand that it’s not forever. How many times do you have to fall to become right? How many years have we been chasing, it’s not the packaging that glitters for, but the soulful content. What do we waste our days on? Why do we live like this if the heart is silent when someone calls? Hey, tell me what’s more important: to be or to seem. Would you stay yourself if everything broke. I’ve seen tons of people who were burning with fire, and then sold their souls for likes and a home. Why make noise if there is no depth? Who are you without a crowd, without show-offs and guilt? How much does silence cost, honestly, inside, where is the line of good and when to cross? Live what is important, not important. Love the faithful, rejoice in the little things, listen to the smart, speak sincerely, and take care of the weak. Live right. Only the important, only the important, only the important, only the important. Only the important. What is success if you are alone? If there is everything except those who helped. If mom does not sleep, and you are silent for weeks? Where is the path that you would call true? After all, we are looking for answers not where the question is. We burn bridges where love could be. Why do we accumulate grievances that eat away inside? Instead of forgiveness, we hold stones in our chest. And when the last breath becomes closer than tomorrow, what will you remember? Victories or how you hugged your brother, how you said thank you when there were no words, as if you were there when the roof was collapsing live important things and not what is unnecessary, love the faithful rejoice in little things, listen to the smart , speak sincerely, protect the weak. Live right. Only the important, only the important. Only the important, only the important. Only the important. When everything disappears, will you remain? Not a number, not a mask, but a name inside. You know the answer and are simply afraid to admit that the important is near, but it is not in sight. It’s not too late, as long as you hear that life is right. Shadows on the walls. A murky ribbon in a world where truth is just an experiment. I wake up in a concrete cave. Thoughts like blades, night on a target. The city like a demon makes noise on the air. They judge for the truth, they are silent like in Palmyra. Hands in calluses, soul on glass. Exit without an exit, running on a loop. People go out like candles in a window. Time crushes their dreams lightly. Tears on the forehead are not from will. Press out. A word to the heart, like a crowbar closer. Those who were alive already in the black silence, those who were faithful, sold out and left. Neither Balik nor faith will save us here. A veil on our eyes, like a chimera. We are running to nowhere, in these tracks and schemes. Light at the end, only peace in the tunnels. Everything around is a veil, brother. I see right through. Those who were with us for a long time disappear like a guest in this world. Without a bottom, where there is no salvation, a cane. We go to the end, albeit slowly, in the mouth. Everything around is a veil, but the burn is darkness, rewrote its route, cut the trap. You and I are not alone. Even if our flag is torn by the winds, we stand like a rock. The world is chess without kings. Whoever you are, you will become nobody’s. Rap is a whip, and not just more raised it where it was too lazy to breathe. Didn’t take feeds, didn’t jump into the route, gave a beat, as if it were a parachute, a load on my back, but I didn’t give up the route, so that to the sky, even though wings don’t grow. Each of my verses is a knife in the dark. Time does not heal, it just devours those, those who were looking for meaning drowned in emptiness. While others swim, we will emerge at the bottom. I am not a savior, I am just a fire that burns in silence. Under the oppression of pursuits. This is not about style, this is about the essence and damage. My lines, like the truth in tone. Everything around is a veil, but I see myself. And who was near yesterday, left you. We stand on the weight, like towers without a nail. But under us is concrete, and we keep our tone. Everything around is a veil, but y orbu this cat. I don’t believe in a game with one turn. We were born in fire, water won’t save us. If you haven’t become the light yourself, it’s not time. But I see the way through it. Even if the whole world is a court, I walk like many bodies that have no souls. With whom the night is like a movie, but the morning is like ink. The truth is smeared on the pillow. Where were you, a nobody, is it a toy? You go out at night, leaving a ringing sound on the door. Without sms, without take care of yourself, without faith. You smoke in silence, pour whiskey. It was sex, but not intimacy, brother, not close. How many faces like that, you can’t even remember their names. Empty for tomorrow. As if someone turned off the background. You are searching again, but not for that. You want a look to penetrate without a pattern. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary. With whom you wake up and the whole world is good, with whom even pain seems warmer. There are many with whom there is simply a night without words. But there are few with whom silence is like blood. With whom it is not a game, not a pose, not a pose. With whomever you want. Tomorrow without falsehood you can live with anyone, as if together. Drink coffee in the morning, argue to the point of a gesture, go to the south, take pictures for the feed, put a ring, live by inertia. You can be, but not love to listen, but not hear the scream inside. Everything according to the rules. Shared accounts. But where is the soul, if the feeling is a quota? A dream is already more difficult here. So that a snow leaf with her initial, so that every evening was warmer and did not want to be with someone for a couple of days. There are many with whom you can live as you should, but there are few with whom the heart is like a reward. With whom it is not in the law, but in all conscience it is with whom you just want to be without thoughts, without numbers. There are many with whom you can go to bed. But there are few with whom a blizzard is not scary, with whom you wake up, and the day is brighter. with whom even drinking is sweeter. And here it is, the whole point in one verse. Not in who is near at night, but who at dawn. Who stays, even if the pain is not flogged with whomever you want tomorrow, but with the soul. That’s how we live in beds without feelings. We find easily, we lose faster. After all, the truth is simple, and there is no pathos in it. Many are those with whom to lie down. Few are those with whom to wake up. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, and the beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. This is not just a sound. This is my path, my choice, my style. Listen, give me the beat. I will enter like a storm into a city without roofs. Mine is not what they will show on stage. This is a path through pain, where salvation is not visible. This is a voice inside that screamed in the silence. This is a fight with yourself in a reflected window. Mayu is a blade of words without deception. This is the truth in a verse. Like a shot from the couch – this is what inside you can’t buy for rubles – this is not hype for an hour, but a style for life. I don’t expect applause. My motive is not the Volga. I don’t pretend that everything is behind me. Each text is like a cartridge, it flies into the target. I’m not lying. This is me, not an actor, not a shadow and a shadow. This is mine. Neither take away, nor break, nor burn. My voice is like a pulse. It goes to meet. This is my everything that was taken with suffering. My word is like truth. Sharpened blade of a gaze. This is mine. Can’t help it, can’t steal it. This is pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and as long as I breathe, I will not give it up. Every line is like a flame. My temple. My temple, the temple of mato, the choice not to be like them, not to join the crowd, not to play along the string, these are wounds in the soul that are not visible in the frame, this is a fight without gloves for an idea, don’t lock it up, mine, this is the flow that goes to the cut, without autotune, without masks, without unnecessary forest, every slot is made of fire, you didn’t understand me, I am like a world without a day, this is not just a rhyme, this is the meaning, a canopy is a nail, silence, this is an exit and stress, these are tears and anger that turned into blood, this is the cry of a generation that did not submit to this is mine , you can’t take away, you can’t break, you can’t burn my voice, like a pulse. It comes to meet. This is mine. Everything that was suffered was taken. My word is like truth, sharpened by the blade of a gaze. This is mine. Can’t help it, can’t steal it. This is pain in the voice that learned to scream. This is mine, and as long as I breathe, I will not give it away. Every line is like a flame. My temple. The temple is mine. As long as my heart beats in my chest, I will tell this to the world through the pain, through the rain. I will remain myself, I will not ask, I will not sell. I am not temporary, like the pulse of a wire. I wake up, but everything is like a dream. As if stuck between was and where. Time goes by, but I do not know where. The world is not my enemy, but it does not offer. The heart beats like a banned watch. Thoughts fly, leaving signs. I will give everyone their own route to the line. But not everyone has enough dreams. Without estates, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last sip. But as long as I breathe, I will not retreat to the east. Without a name day, but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here, look. I am zen with bada inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look, if you hear, do not turn away . We are the same this charge. Those who are silent know the price of words. We are not heroes, but we stand in half. Every light is supposed to have a shadow. Every day has its night and target. You choose to burn or rot. I chose the path where you can forgive. Without a name, without a flag and words, I walk through concrete and love. This day is like the last breath. But while I breathe, I will not retreat on my feet. Unchanged but with the truth inside. Let them not find me, but I am here. Look without this truth inside. Let them not find me. But if you look, if you are silent, then you are breathing. If you walk, then you are alive. And the name? It will still be erased. They call it pain, I call it growth. Someone drowns in silence. I swim for the question. Dust falls on shoulders, the sky is ashen. But inside this voice still whispers and is swept away by light. I saw the world on fire, but did not burn. I walked barefoot on glass. Did not give in to games. Friends disappeared like smoke in the void. But I listened to my eye. It whispered in the darkness. Pain is my teacher, fear is my elder brother. And each of my choices is a personal sunset. I tore my masks, like skin from my face, to meet the creator in the mirror. There is no point in running in this vanity. We live to lie in dust someday. But between birth and this line there is a chance to become yourself, and not just darkness. Between ashes and a voice my path is at random. I got lost more than once, but got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between ashes and a voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If the light around is fading, even in the ashes I will find. A shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is contrast. I am not a saint and not a genius, neither god nor enemy. I am only the one who hides the inner darkness under a blanket, smiling outwardly, rotting from within. There are so many who have not been inside for a long time. Everyone is running for an answer, but they do not hear themselves. Their prayers are mechanics, not a soul, but shooting. But when you are on your knees and your throat is on fire, you will understand this world. It is not outside, but inside me. I whisper to the heavens, but I am silent to the people nearby, because the truth is not in words, but in looks. Every scar is a map, every fear is a beacon. And the closer to the abyss, the more audible my step. Between the ashes and the eye, my path is at random. I have been lost more than once, but I got up without obstacles. Let there be light in me, even if it has faded, I will not surrender to myself. My last order between ashes and voice. My path and my cross. I do not believe in the end. If the surroundings are fading, even in the ashes I will find a shining layer. My name is hope, my voice is a contrast. If you hear, it means to live. If it hurts, it means the path is not forgotten. And while the eye inside has not gone out, you are the light even in the ashes. Even now I have seen time, how it tears clean, how the boys burn, not having time to say: “Forgive me.” The concrete is silent, He knows more than the prophets. My trace has frozen on him, like blood on the sleeve near the line. Here, every day is like a shot into the soul without a sight. Here, wings do not save if the heart is made of metal. An old man on a bench silently smokes a cigarette. He was a hero until he understood the price of delirium. I saw death not the one with a scythe in black, but the one in a five-piece, which carries away without maples. A kid with a knife in his pocket. Not a gangster, he is scared, but if the walls press, he will cut his hand. We do not live, we wait for the moment to become a legend. Eternity behind the garages, where the years are silent. Here, every step is like a final eye, even those do not remember who is the moose in this dusty fight. I do not write tracks, I cut the truth on the beat. My soul in words, like poison sewn into a blade, was. Who wants eternity, it is not in the hall and not in the top, but in the eyes of those who did not sell themselves in bulk. I remember the yard, where everyone was like a brother. Now they are gone. Only photos in an old folder remain. Someone left quietly, someone stupidly on show, and someone rose like a phoenix with blood on their lips. We did not look for God, he looked for us under the bookmark, looked through the windows of the panel, where destinies broke briefly. If you heard my voice through the speaker, you know eternity is near. We are just strangers in it. We do not live. We are waiting for the moment to become a legend. Eternity is behind the garages, where legends are silent. Here, every step is like a final chord. But even those do not remember who is in this dusty fight. Lord, I am not a saint, I just survived among the predators. My style, like a knife, does not cut the air, only the truth, on the edge of balance between light and longing, my soul is not sold, it left with the fighter. We are children without fatherhood and broken dreams, but each of us carries in our hearts the power of eternal rebellion. And let them not believe, we have long been immortal. In each verse there is a cry of those who have long been gone. Do not look for me in the charts. My truth is not there. I am the street, where instead of a like there are glances. My rap is not for fame, but so that the memory of those who lived like a warrior and died like a flame remains. And if the night freezes, I will be in this battle. Eternity is not in religion, but in pure rhythm. Look into my soul, and you will understand without words. My path is like a load, my cross is like a cat. I am in the block where concrete slabs whisper, where forgive. It is a rarity, like light in orbit, where the guys rot for past mistakes. And only their voice is alive for mothers. I was there with them, in the alleys and cages, where there are no moral gods, no advice, where a knife in the back, no shot rules. And whoever survived, is soullessly poisoned. You would like to understand, but you will understand only fragments. This is a life without guarantees. On crumbs and spurts. Here poets smile, here they breathe carbon monoxide. Here love is a luxury, and truth is a commodity. Everything is forgiven in paradise, but here from under the sole, where children are buried under their mothers, it is sickening. When you scream, you hear only yourself, because here everyone has their own fate. I do not pray for forgiveness, I am not forgiven. I have crosses on me, like on the walls of the zone. In these eyes there is a genuine fire. I live like
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Spotify – https://open.spotify.com/artist/4pzq0iKsQn6GzSNvOknpR9
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✍️ Автор: S4VA @ym_sound @amd_music_kz
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