Текст песни FRESH ART - Грех

On the western shore of the heavenly ocean, the tired sun is quietly extinguishing.
A heavy purple twilight envelops the dusty cities.
The air thickens and seems to stick to the firm skin of a moccona. Slowly, unhurriedly, like tar along the trunk, lust flows into weary bodies.
Hot...
And it's stuffy, like a sleepy evening before a shower.
Dark and damp.
Fire, like a blade, will cut your eyes.
Don't need fire!
The guide in the night is your desire.
Something that has curled up like a snake in the lower abdomen and haunts you.
And the dream, not long ago expected, drives away. Close all the doors, undress and lie on the cold floor.
Dry lips are thirsty.
Say your name and a crack on your lower lip will hurt your exposed nerves. So for a little while.
And so sweet!
Inhale the scent of the hot body greedily. The veins are curled up into a knot and whine and wait for movement to burst!
Throw back your head so that the artery throbs defiantly.
Thick blood creeps viscously along the blue rivers of veins.
Let cold sweat come out millions of times, shimmering with mother-of-pearl. Do not rush!
The fall into the dark abyss is endless. Fear and lust give you wings.
Fall, closing your eyes and forgetting about the past! Black wings are no less wings than white ones.
A strangled scream stings his throat pierced with desire.
The body is like a stretched string of an antique bow.
Foggy images beckon and scratch your skin in a prickly whisper, and torment your consciousness, and call and want you.
Quietly, how the night flows into a crack, how galaxies rush towards each other, how a tired god drops his hands and falls asleep to the sound of a meteor shower, lust will enter you.
You feel the weight of it.
You are a heated, restless flesh.
Deliverance...
Moan...
A frantic rhythm pulsates in your head, you are all a continuation of this rhythm.
Don't stop, you can't do it yourself! Whisper...
Whisper...
A whisper envelops you from all sides.
The body beats in an unknown dance.
It reflects the voice of the timbags.
Louder and louder!
As a mercury grain, cold glides between the shoulder blades when moving.
And, like a collision of worlds in endless space - getting rid of you.
From you.
Explosion!
The exhausted body, scattered on the floor, will shudder in time with the first cry of a mule, meeting the newborn sun.
And only dry lips are silently intertwined in a spell, like the rustle of ethereal wind: "Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachthani ..."
The answer is tart bitterness on the lips:
"Sin".