ChipaChip - В родных катакомбах - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I'm passing an old park

I missed them so much in Moscow

It's good where we're not

Our life is a ditch

It's important to stay in it with skill

While your skeleton still flies on Nikes

I'm passing an old park, it will remind me of many things again

It will give me lines, enough for an entire album

A hint that we won't be the same, it will hurt

We had to crawl out here from the underground

Before, chasing dreams, now chasing fashion

I'll leave youth for micro, aka schizophrenia modernism

Now I'm clasping my hands with it, and before, buttons - confusion

The window panes were hardly inferior to the factory chimneys there

I'll light a lampshade in an old panel house, in a glossy world, figure me out by my type

I'm still a fan of all this lyricism, and as long as I have at least some ears, I'm not leaving

This city in which, The melancholy that is so dear

leads along corridors where the homies are dope and idiots

in my head like a monitor, a row of doors into a bunch of rooms

behind which are roots and we love and remember

the city in which, the melancholy that is so dear

leads along corridors where the homies are dope and idiots

in my head like a monitor, a row of doors into a bunch of rooms

and we are loved and remembered, in our native catacombs

They don't understand this, it's morning, and you're already so rumpled

pounding on the pipe where they insist you're not an abonent

but that's not an argument and there's simply no time

the memory of you is my main opponent

They don't understand this, we're being driven into depression by everything

faces and moments that we'll dream about again today

and all these dreams are painfully similar to reality

and in all those holes, I could have buried myself

in this matrix, we won't meet Keanu Reeves

we can't see the land from that ocean of memories

and we We decided to resign ourselves and swim, sinking even deeper with the press of play...

a city where, melancholy, what's so dear,

leads along corridors where homies smoke weed and idiots...

a monitor in our heads, a row of doors leading to a multitude of rooms...and we are loved and remembered, in our native catacombs...

in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs...in our native catacombs