Текст песни Алекша Нович - Мессия

You probably don't remember me anymore,
Millennia seem to have passed.
I wonder at the electronics in this room
Yes, I was not in debt in this world.
And all these instruments, and the current running in the microphone
Doesn't remind me of that planet, of that home of mine.
With walls smeared in clay, without gas heating,
Without internet, television, and even basic radio.
Yes, I did not see all this, in your eyes I must be wild,
But wait, still, on those icons, isn't it my face?
But on this one my mother, by the way, has not seen her for a long time.
I love her very much. I hope I didn't hurt her much
When at seventeen, he drove from Galilee on a hitch.
Yes, in my youth, I often took part in such hassles.
But on this one I have with my older brother John,
I kind of pray, and he pours Jordan water on my head.
Yes, a lot of strange things happened in these thirty-three years,
But wait, what is this concrete building?
In which all these icons weigh, and the sacrificial fire burns,
Where everything is so strict, expensive and does not even smell like a windy spirit.
How how? A temple for prayer? A place to ask for forgiveness?
But something I don't remember asking for forgiveness in such a room
I prayed in the mountains, forests, sometimes at home on the doorstep.
No, no, I'm not whining, just a little surprised.
So for my Father's sake, pray wherever you like,
You want to go to your temples, home, but at least go to McDuck.
I remember that trauma is dangerous to meddle in the politics of spirituality,
Therefore, I am not going to gather my flock again. Clear?
The second time, I certainly won't fall for this chip
Forgive me, but I still have shortness of breath from the wound under the right rib.
I actually came to talk to you about another matter,
Do you remember my second precursor, somehow sang in your prayers?
Well, in general, as you wanted,
I am again among you, in this physical body.

No, no, I'm not crying it's the wind in my eyes,
He makes men think differently.
No, no, blood doesn't mean on my palms,
That you should pray for my every verse.

I go to my church and don't find my knowledge
And I don't understand why the fact of my circumcision is so important here.
And kissing my image, and listening to Talmud
Replaced my teaching on the salvation of souls, yeah
And where is my sermon on the mountain? I didn't understand something.
Do you have any idea how many nights in a row I cooked it?
Either you beguiled, or I was wrong with the door of the roofing felts,
But why is your cult built around my suffering and pain?
And so much excess salt and water was spilled on people,
Some left-wing prayers, only how many are invented.
I take the Gospel, or rather what has survived from it,
I find the moment where my community prayed.
Well, it is written in black and white, the true word,
But I only feel someone's stern reproachful look on me.
An old woman comes up to me, say "You don't pray like that
You are not standing there, you are not swearing so, you will anger God now. "
Begone Satan! I told the one who stood behind her spirit
But from the abuse I heard in response, my ears curled tightly into a tube.
And in general, with noise and scandal from this house of the Pharisees
They drove out my appearance in this physical body.
And so I'm sitting in the park with a guitar on a bench
And people passing by are throwing money at me for food.
And the body of my mutilated earthly pains,
Can't compare with the pain in my heart, about your lost will.

No, no, I'm not crying it's the wind in my eyes,
He makes men think differently.
No, no, blood doesn't mean on my palms,
That you should pray for my every verse.