In the silence of the Baltic, where the low clouds stretch out comfortably on the high plains or steep in Pomerania, between the yellow fields of barley that surround the Ostsee, here is the music that you enter the living force and wounded heart. Raise the volume, because the lift Magone turn into tears cleansing.
not want to lay you, you are part of the whole, between the sky and the sea, with nobody, because nobody want to see you here consuls and live in the tension between the misery and suffering a sweet memory now.
You miss the scrub forest in search of the lighthouse, and from there to the beach, softened and beaten by the wind, walk on piles driven into the sea.
A bit 'of snow, just not to forget that little of the great north and everything disappears, you lose and slips. Nothing remains, sic transit gloria mundi, and my less glorious but equally tenacious Pasilinna as losing all contact in search of a hare, and that will lead to Karelia.
No more suffering, no more Betasabea comforting the King, only because silence is all that remains in the hollow of his hand ...
ps: i madcom have accompanied me on these trips and I am grateful to them even if they have won the Eurosong contest. Too bad.
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