Текст песни Margenta - Династия Посвященных - Дети Саванаролы

They look at point-blank range,
Hatred in their eyes,
This is not just a fire -
And no smoke in heaven,
They gather words,
Translate into your language -
And the philosopher's head
Lies in sticky mud.

Young fangs
They crave flabbiness of the neck,
So get old people
With the pathos of stupid speeches.
Toothless pitiful mouths
Shortly children will score with sand,
And the stakes through the shaky flooring
Push through, fooling, secretly,
To completely become ill
On the way to the place of execution the prophet,
A bored teacher-prophet,
Fra Girolamo Savonarola,
But for now -

HOR:
This army is sacred,
This army is clean,
Fall, sinner, on your knees,
And be silent. May it be so!
And be silent. May it be so!
He'll get tired, we'll easily turn back time,
We'll get tired, we'll start playing our games,
Who taught us - he will cry out for mercy,
Only to us - to spit, to spit, to spit,
But for now -
March, march, army of children Savonarola,
March, march, army of Savonarola children.
March, march, army of children Savonarola,
March, march, army of Savonarola children.
Naive angels, not murderers, not thieves,
March, march, soldiers of the teacher Savonarola ...