Lyrics ВАНТУЗ - НА САМОМ ДЕЛЕ

All that I need will be created now and here
While pride and despair boils as a mixture
And concentrating on this
I will disappear and immediately appear poets
At least in this I believe disappearing again
I'm sending myself a new word search
This freedom of will is the one that he breathes
When the soul flies and the hand freely writes
About anything just if it was not about me
About man and concrete houses in the window
Write it is not necessary never the soul remember it
From the pit of the city, hands can not reach the light
I act like a robot as the orders of a song
Not knowing the hunger of fatigue or illness
And all that is needed is forty-eight lines
The one who writes sitting somewhere on the sloping roof

In fact, if all this was not so
I wrote and sang every passer-by by a fool
And instead of the daily gray work routine
He would paint like a grandfather Roerich paintings
The mountain of questions grows on the ground of prohibitions
Wishing fame there climb in the search for secrets
Rather, the birds will get them if they are there
Gathering according to the scheme itself, if you do not understand, you will get junk
Take no higher and no lower and in the middle
Creation is one and not two in half
Anything you create in a golden biscuit
Let's leave it for good and not for fun
Behind the clouds my soul flies high
Alas, my hand does not have time to write down everything
Few know how many songs have not yet sung
Perhaps one of them was once this

I disappear if the body becomes cramped
What would not happen if only it was written honestly
If not directly means the meaning lies between the lines
In a poem where there are no commas or dots
When I finish that awful pride
Whispering in my ear like rhyme, I became a slave
And I believe in a lie that blindly draw a conclusion
Becoming very proud but for a short period
Everything was written by someone else
Text typing with my hand
And I thought that I invented it myself
Playing rhymes for different words
Desperation and pride were temporarily confronted by foreheads
Conflict inside creating that would take possession of poetry
And I overhear after telling others about it
How not easy to actually be a poet

How easy it is not to be a poet in practice
It's time to talk about it.
It's time to talk about it.
How easy it is not to be a poet in practice