Muk [English translation]

1.strophe:

As a little boy, I heard a story about Grig and ant,

with no polemic who is right.

The grig is dangler, he deserves to die from hunger.

In the winter. Hungry. Alone and miserable.

As he has no a single day of service,

contrary to the ant, who is laborer.

Who works honestly. Who creates something.

And the thing that this first plays instrument, it's just the verbiage and for nothing.

I live in the world where all this is understood just like in the story.

They blaspheme every grig. Even if any of them did not trample on an ant.

They can't distinguish music of milking and mud.

They can't distinguish musician of "musi-can't".

They have taken the copyrights, and soon they will also take the human rights.

The artist is the beast. Fog and hole in the hand.

The music is dying, but mass doesn't care.

Just few moments, and there will stay nothing.

Refrain:

There will stay just silence. In heads and ears.

Human's shells, wasteland. Silence.

And man is a sound to another man.

Poor your feasts.

Your lampions.

Your champions.

Your millions.

Your empty eyes.

And blood over your ears,

where music had died.

2.strophe:

There will stay just reality show and the radio statics,

to rumble in the decayed ears of the zombies

while it's ping-ponging inside of empty heads,

where verse is resting in peace. In the halls,

there is genocide of musics, they are dead and broken.

On the Square of Big Brother* insane people put up the pyre, to burn instruments, ideas and to declare a final victory, while they are sending message with their dead hand that they are voting for the greatest talebearer and jeer.

They are swinging with their bowels, happy and average.

They have necklaces of ears which they cut before.

Silence is going inside of their eye sockets

which they are using for watching ugly things, payed more expensive than they should be.

Flag with picture of nose that is plunged into other's stuffs.

Rotten teeth are chewing intimacy, and dirty mouth are spitting out pieces of the soul on the faces of the interlocutors, while silence is scraping their throats.

...and where is the music?

End of the world without soundtrack.

...where is the music?

The blood over your ears.

• Artist:Marčelo
• Album:Napet šou