Дакота Диез - Итог - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

So then, I suppose it’s time to draw some kind of conclusion;

I probably ought to lace this beat with some rhymes—

a flowing stream of lines—but then the final bell will toll,

and gazing into the abyss, the hungry poet will quietly pull the trigger...

[But for now] I’m steeped in nostalgia—drowning in booze, smoke filling the room to the ceiling;

numbed by the liquor, I stare out the window, watching the clouds drift by.

I would be ashamed to release the kind of "stuff" that most others put out there;

I refused to do it—I wouldn't create merely to glorify other "stars."

I fell silent; the thought of rapping never even crossed my mind.

My inner world grew shallow while my hands lay idle.

I couldn't find release at the start, even when the end felt so near—

just me and a bottle of whiskey, slowly adjusting to a new life.

Is *this* the true meaning behind the lines on our palms and our fingerprints?

After this period of decadence, will there be any chance to set things right?

If I get lucky, I’ll use my past to create a stark contrast—

satisfying every tier of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

This is the crooked path of an ordinary man;

this is what remains—the reality that exists beyond the tracks he records.

This is where his "Siberian sector" of life is leading him—

yet forever in his heart, alongside rap music, remains only Gastarek.

What is the outcome? If the wolf is fed—then there was purpose.

What is the outcome? If God is wrathful—then life is lived on borrowed time.

What is the outcome? If the time runs short—you end up in the morgue.

What is the outcome... when the beat finally falls silent? For years now, the kid from Kropotkinskaya has been drunk on wine—

on amphetamines—and aside from that, there is nothing else;

yet, with steady regularity, sitting at the table, I tear my own wings off—

a solo feast, drinking myself into a coma in a one-room apartment...

And it all winds on like a mountain road, spinning in a spiral:

one moment a sitting duck in a shooting gallery, the next—paradise is just around the corner;

one moment a fortune sits safe in my pocket, the next—I’ve run aground;

and yet, even at rock bottom, I find myself craving something new...

Something heavier for the bloodstream, something stronger for the table;

the speedometer pushing a hundred—then slamming on the brakes if the cops are watching;

every evening at home is an endless alcohol marathon;

by day, I scrub my soul clean—just like Al Capone laundering dirty cash...

This rap feels like a lump stuck in my throat—

for, in essence, I’m just office fodder and an incorrigible alcoholic;

scribbling verses after a binge feels like performing an autopsy—

but is that truly the purpose behind the rough drafts scrawled across my palms?