This is truth, that you wouldnt believe
This is hate held on acid tongues
This is blood mixed with soil, tears of grief
Those who lived through the ten years of bombs
Come to us, we're kindest of sorts
Faces gone, left are just armored plates
Building walls out of grandparents bones
Out of comrades laid barricades
Come to us, mix your own blood with earth
See how land will rebel, heave and boil
We lived here long before your birth
And machineguns see no nightmares at all
We don't fight for the fredom of masses
We don't feel honeyd touch of illusion
We don't fight against tyrants or classes
All we want is your own dissolution
Come to us with your guts and your glory
Bleed and burn while we ride away laughing
Sons of Scythia, Mongols and Oleg
Will make sure you regret every battle
10 years
© Copyright: Мика Фролов, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124021800627
Свидетельство о публикации №124021800627
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