Текст песни
Concrete blocks and a broken flagpole, painted in the colours of the sun
The official portrait in the post office, of a leader that's already gone
We're signing treaties in a language that nobody here ever learned
The currency's a photocopy, every single bridge has been burned
The train from Vilnius to nowhere, it runs exactly twice a week
The conductor checks a passport for a country that's a fictional mystique
We're liminal, liminal country
We're the waiting room, we're the back street
We're the airport lounge that never sees a plane
Just the buzzing of the fluorescent light, the static in the grain
We're liminal, stuck in between
The faded dream and the fading screen
Tbilisi's filled with ghost hotels, for a tourist boom that never came
The sulfur baths are full of echoes, whispering a forgotten name
We export our youngest children, they send back euros in an envelope
While we argue about a statue, and a long-abandoned hope
The NATO application's filed, the customs union forms are there
We're parallel universes, breathing the same confused despair
Kyev's Maidan square is empty now, the stage has been taken down
But the cobblestones remember, the weight of every town
That stood beneath the flags of blue and yellow, and the red and black
We're still waiting for the verdict, there's no going back
The Dneper keeps on flowing, to a sea that's been betrayed
Cut off from the East, abandoned by the West, a living barricade
We're the breadbasket, now a battlefield, the soil soaked with rain
And the ghost of Chernobyl hums, a quiet, lethal refrain
We're liminal, liminal country
We're the waiting room, we're the back street
We're the airport lounge that never sees a plane
Just the buzzing of the fluorescent light, the static in the grain
We're liminal, stuck in between
The faded dream and the fading screen
They say: choose the past, choose the future!
But we're the jam in the revolving door
A little bit West, a little bit East
A perfect, permanent metaphor
We're liminal, liminal country
We're the waiting room, we're the back street
We're the airport lounge that never sees a plane
Just the buzzing of the fluorescent light, the static in the grain
We're liminal, stuck in between
The faded dream and the fading screen
The clock stopped... in ninety-one
The clock stopped... but the power's still on
Just the buzzing... the buzzing
Комментировать