Текст песни
A room of hush, a river under floorboards,
the hearth remembers names.
Ink on my thumbs, the winter won’t leave;
a house teaching silence to breathe.
Portraits unblinking, twin-light on the stair,
a story in bandages asking to tear.
I archive the dust, I weigh every thread,
gardens go feral where lullabies bled.
Rivers keep secrets, but books learn to speak—
I listen for truth through the weak and the bleak.
Turn the story, turn the key—
what the river hid, give back to me.
By the fire, say it plain:
who kept the shadow, who wore the name?
I wore your questions like frost on the pane,
switching the faces, trading the pain.
Attics remember the cradle’s small cry,
mirrors grew thorns so the truth wouldn’t die.
I hid in the margins, I burned what I could—
love is a lantern that cuts through the wood.
If blood is a library bound without end,
then loss is the index that points to a friend.
Turn the story, turn the key—
let the winter loosen me.
By the fire, speak the vow:
I am the shadow, and I am the now.
All the lives we left untold
become the light that warms the cold.
In the thirteenth glow we hold—
the shadows read as gold.
