We Are NoMore
Albert Svetlov


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We Are No More



Albert Svetlov



 Albert Svetlov, 2026



ISBN 978-5-0069-9770-7

     Ridero




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We Are No More


		Its that simple
		We are no more
		Not listed anywhere
		And the world rushes on,
		Choking on a hot dog as it runs,
		Washes it down with cola.
		A mundane fact
		That we are no more
		Its that simple

		Its that simple
		We are no more
		And the dates of life are now unreadable
		Fewer reasons to remember those
		Lost between two epochs.
		Those who couldnt take root in the Newest Time,
		Who didnt forget themselves in youth.
		Its that simple
		And we are no more

		We are no more
		We melted like the first snowflakes.
		We are no more
		We burned like black-and-white snapshots.
		We are no more
		We left as unsolved riddles, sphinxes.
		We are no more
		We rasp on worn-out discs.

		Its that simple
		We are no more
		Without plastic wreaths and tearful epitaphs.
		We left as we lived, ignoring deadlines,
		Measured by crooked fortune-teller magpies.
		Without details, with quiet smiles.
		We hid inside the pages of slammed-shut books.
		Its that simple
		We are no more

		Its that simple
		We are no more
		We smile from the twenty-fifth frames
		Of a scratched grandfathers film reel,
		And we sing along from tape recordings
		With three outlaw minor chords
		To which innocence was lost.
		Its that simple
		We are no more

		We are no more
		We melted like the first snowflakes.
		We are no more
		We burned like black-and-white snapshots.
		We are no more
		We left as unsolved riddles, sphinxes.
		We are no more
		We rasp on worn-out discs.

		The wind blows out the gas lamps
		Of Prousts regained time,
		Chases snowflakes of poplar fluff
		Through the deserted streets of ghostly Combray,
		Howls like a stray dog in an evil hour
		On the summer veranda of the Princesse de Guermantes.
		It beckons with a silver horn to the table
		The lost companies between the Volga and Vivonne.

		We are no more
		We melted like the first snowflakes.
		We are no more
		We burned like black-and-white snapshots.
		We are no more
		We left as unsolved riddles, sphinxes.
		We are no more
		We rasp on worn-out discs.
		We are no more
		We are no more




The Weary Summer


The weary summer grants to us

In August days of thirty-five degrees.

The t-shirts, baseball caps and singlets fine 

We find ourselves in these.

And in a crowded summer cafe yard

Youll always meet the ones youre glad to see.

The weary summer is preparing

A parade of maple leaves for you and me.



The weary summer is preparing

A parade of maple leaves for you and me.



The beer debates with your old drinking friend

Are interrupted by a joyful, gentle rain.

A boy inside his open shirt unbuttoned

Offers us a heavy currant skein.

Its easy breathing in this August air,

And it can fool you  it will always stay.

The weary summer, so audacious,

Wont be the same another day.



The weary summer, so audacious,

Wont be the same another day.



And this, our summer, has now filled us up

With dreaming, loving, and its gentle heat.

Oh, how we long to share this inner fire

With those whose company is sweet.

The season of our holidays is ending,

The daylights getting shorter, as you see.

The weary summer will be staying

In photos, talk, and memory.



The weary summer will be staying

In photos, talk, and memory.



The weary summer (summer, summer)

In photos, talk, and memory (memory)

The weary summer (summer, summer)

Wont be the same another day (another day)

The weary summer (summer, summer)

In August days of thirty-five (thirty-five)

The weary summer (summer, summer)

To share this inner fire




I Will Remain in Sound



I will remain a sound among your sound,

The words composed in all the songs Ive made.

Well, in my life, I was not interesting,

To many I was inconvenient, Im afraid.

Well, in my life, I was not interesting,

To many I was inconvenient, Im afraid.



And everything will come to pass someday!

The world will be redeemed and saved by love!

It is a pity that when that bright day arrives,

I will have parted ways with earth above!



From yellowed pages of the books Ive read,

I will return to sing whats left unsung!

And drink it all, whats left there undrunk!

A carefree vagabond, from cares unstrung!

And drink it all, whats left there undrunk!

A carefree vagabond, from cares unstrung!



And everything will come to pass someday!

The world will be redeemed and saved by love!

It is a pity that when that bright day arrives,

I will have parted ways with earth above!



And those who have erased me from their mind,

From youth and childhood wiped my memory clean,

I will appear in dreams, not angry, not unkind,

A peaceful vision on their screens unseen.

I will appear in dreams, not angry, not unkind,

A peaceful vision on their screens unseen.



And EVERYTHING will come to pass someday!

The world WILL BE redeemed and saved by LOVE!

It is a pity that when that bright day arrives,

I will have parted ways with earth above!



I will remain a sound among your sound

The words composed in all the songs Ive made




Prompt for SUNO AI


Grand rock ballad, Theatrical, expressive male vocals, ranging from intimate, almost conversational verses to powerful, soaring, and slightly operatic delivery in the choruses, Piano-driven arrangement with a full rock band (drums, bass, electric guitars) and a sweeping orchestral string section, Dramatic dynamic shifts: starts with melancholic piano, builds with each chorus to a massive, sound with layered backing vocals and choir-like harmonies, Features an epic, melodic guitar solo and a final, spoken-word section over sparse piano before a last, triumphant instrumental crescendo and a slow, majestic fade-out, The mood is grandiose, bittersweet, defiant, and deeply nostalgic, like a final performance for the ages.




The stationmaster



The stationmaster sees me on my way.

In bitter cold and storm, he readies up his steed.

A strangers book, a loaf of rye so grey,

He wraps them in a cloth for my dire need.

He steps with me onto the threshold stone,

And then I must depart, and go alone.



The stationmaster has a daughter fair,

A beauty like the dawn, a wondrous sight.

I shall not draw too close, I would not dare,

A strangers soul is like the starless night.

You lose your path therein, and meet your end.

The old man watches closely his child, his friend.



Ill take to keep with me her kerchief fine,

So that the blizzards path feels less forlorn.

Ill raise a hand to wave a last goodbye.

They will not say in pity, filled with scorn:

She has another love, they will not say.

She has another love, they turn away.



SHE HAS ANOTHER LOVE!

ANOTHER! LOOK AWAY!



Ill keep as my own token, her kerchief fine

A strangers book Ill cross the fading line

I shall not draw too close, lest I should stray

The lonely old man waves as I ride away

They will not say in pity whats been hidden

They spare me but the truth: I am not bidden



They will not say She has another love

She has another

Another




Prompt for SUNO AI


A medieval narrative ballad, Male vocals in a clear, mournful, storyteller style, without excessive vibrato, reminiscent of a minstrel or bard, Authentic acoustic arrangement: primary instruments are a Gusli (or Zither) playing arpeggiated, modal patterns and a wooden Recorder carrying the melancholic melody, A simple Frame Drum or Tabor provides a steady, walking rhythm, The harmony is modal (Dorian/Phrygian), creating an ancient, fateful atmosphere, The structure is strophic and episodic, with instrumental interludes separating the verses, The climax features a powerful, throaty lament rather than a modern scream, The outro is sparse and fading, like a traveler disappearing into the distance, The overall mood is timeless, tragic, and deeply atmospheric, focusing on fate, longing, and resigned farewell.




Play Bach as the Final Curtain



Play Bach when the final curtains near,

Let every key begin its prayer.

So the heart may tremble, free from fear and pain,

And centuries may peacefully pour.



So the heart may tremble, free from fear and pain,

And centuries may peacefully pour.



Play, maestro, please, continue playing,

The half-dark hall is holding its breath.

And to us, your audience, gently be conveying

A motif, a half-tone, half a verse till death.



And to us, your audience, gently be conveying

A motif, a half-tone, half a verse till death.



The interweaving melodies are tracing

For us this everlasting plot,

That life, despite all, keeps its pacing,

Whether we desire it or not.



That life, despite all, keeps its pacing,

Whether we desire it or not.



Let the dimly gleaming keyboards grace

Bestow the feeling of loves embrace,

Those divine forces holding us tight,

And luring like a distant stars light.



Those divine forces holding us tight,

And luring like a distant stars light.



Play Bach when the final curtains near,

Let Ave Maria grieve and sigh,

And heal the heart from pain and fear,

Understand us sinners, and imply



And heal the heart from pain and fear,

Understand us sinners, and imply



Play Bach when the final curtains near

Play Bach when the final curtains near

Play Bach

Let centuries peacefully pour




Prompt for SUNO AI


Neo-baroque chamber piece, A contrapuntal dialogue for classical guitar and piano, Male vocals, clear, reverent, and integrated as a third melodic voice into the polyphonic texture, The arrangement is an intellectual and emotional conversation: the piano and guitar trade and intertwine melodic lines in the style of a Baroque invention or fugue, especially during the instrumental interludes, The choruses are moments of harmonic resolution where the instruments converge into supportive chords, The mood is sacred, intimate, melancholic, and deeply musical, evoking the atmosphere of a hushed, half-dark concert hall, The piece builds not in volume but in polyphonic complexity, ending in a serene, faded resolution, The sound is acoustic, close-micd, and detailed.




Waiting for a Line



		Waiting for a line.
		Endless like the age.
		Do not judge me harshly,
		Wait, o human, wait.
		Turn around for just a second,
		Stay, and give advice,
		How to live the time thats left now
		Without a sacrifice?
		Turn around for just a second,
		Stay, and give advice,
		How to live the time thats left now
		Without a sacrifice?

		How to live the time thats left now
		Without a sacrifice?

		Without a sacrifice

		How to learn at once
		What I failed to know?
		Stupidity and greed and spite,
		Dont let them in, dont let them grow.
		How to love and never lose?
		How to soar without the wine?
		Is it really, truly possible
		That life is only mine?

		How to love and never lose?
		How to soar without the wine?
		Is it really, truly possible
		That life is only mine?

		Waiting for a line
		Endless like the age

		Do not judge me harshly.
		Wait, o human, wait.

		Is it really, truly possible
		That life is only mine?




Prompt for SUNO AI


Neo-classical chamber piece, A study in restrained desperation, Clear, controlled male baritone vocal, moving from quiet narration to strained intensity, ending in calm exhaustion, Arrangement for string quartet only, using extended techniques: ponticello (bowing near the bridge), harmonics, and deliberate dissonance, The piece builds psychological tension through accumulating harmonic clashes and rhythmic fragmentation, not through volume, Its core is a long, tense silence followed by a single stark, dissonant chord (the climax), The aftermath is a breathy exhale and a whispered, spoken-word finale, The mood is intellectual, claustrophobic, and profoundly unsettling, focusing on internal collapse rather than external drama.




Loneliness


When every bridge behind is burned and gone,

And this mad century is slowing down,

The last to die is never, ever hope.

The last to die is just a man whos bound.



The last to die is never, ever hope!

The last to die is just a man whos bound!



In vain, the colonel waits for letters, fresh,

And walks the dusty shore time and again.

And all thats left is beating on the wall,

Forgetting pain, and breaking fists in vain.



And all thats left is beating on the wall!

Forgetting pain, and breaking fists in vain!



The ships wont ever make it to the shore,

The corvettes, brigantines, and frigates  none.

And in the town, theyll turn the streetlights off,

And mourn for every loss they have undergone.



And in the town, theyll turn the streetlights off!

And mourn for every loss they have undergone!



And whats ahead  a hundred years alone,

But only without hoping, without faith

The last to die is never, ever hope.

The last to die is just a man whos bound.



The last to die is NEVER, EVER HOPE!

The last to die is JUST A MAN!



When every bridge behind is burned and gone,

And this mad century is slowing down

The last to die is never, ever hope

The last to die is just a man whos bound



When every bridge behind is burned and gone

When every bridge behind is burned and gone

When every bridge




Seeing Them Off



We just see the leaving off,

Not thinking they might never reappear.

In the whirlpool of the days and seconds flight,

Our youth wont let us look back, never shed a tear.



In the whirlpool of the days and seconds flight,

Our youth wont let us look back, never shed a tear.



We let the best among our friends just go,

And see the truest women on their way.

The winter night begins to longer grow,

And happy days are fewer from that day.



The winter night begins to longer grow,

And happy days are fewer from that day.



Whats left for us is memory for good,

Partings, meetings, failures, and delight

The years like moonlight shimmer in our hair,

And storms will leave their traces, pale and light.



The years like moonlight shimmer in our hair,

And storms will leave their traces, pale and light.



And those who wont return to us, forgive,

Will think of what has passed while on the road.

And take away with trains that onward live

The tale about the old and sleeping towns abode.



And take away with trains that onward live

The tale about the old and sleeping towns abode.




Prompt for SUNO AI


Male vocal that shifts from intimate spoken word to a clear, strong baritone, finally to a tired whisper, Dynamic, cinematic structure, Begins sparse: clean electric guitar, ambient pads, Verses are melodic and thoughtful, Choruses are drastically quieter, delivered as a breathy whisper with long reverb, creating extreme dynamic contrast, Between sections, powerful instrumental crescendos build with drums, strings (cello, violin), and distorted guitars in a post-rock style, A chaotic noise collage breakdown in the middle uses train sounds and radio static, The outro returns to a melancholic, sparse arrangement, The overall mood is elegiac, melancholic, and grand, exploring themes of departure and memory.




Nothing Is Written



Nothings written, you and me.

The winter day will end, youll see.

Its like a bird held in the hand.

Do you understand?

A fleeting moment, soft and brief,

A mix of joy and gentle grief.

The dusk will softly settle down.

The lights will flicker on in town.



A fleeting moment, soft and brief,

A mix of joy and gentle grief.

The dusk will softly settle down.

The lights will flicker on in town.



You wont find peace in New Years wine.

The world gets worse, a steep decline.

Your greetings will not reach my door.

Not anymore.

The simple truth is hard to face

In this cold and hurried place.

Just bitter ash from letters penned.

Will drown in Champagne in the end.



The simple truth is hard to face

In this cold and hurried place.

Just bitter ash from letters penned.

Will drown in Champagne in the end.



The moon will print the frosty lace.

On the window pane, our space.

Nothings thought up for us two.

Me and you.

Our shadows merge from candlelight.

It makes the trembling shadows bright.

I read the future in the weave,

The pattern on your delicate thin sleeve.



Our shadows merge from candlelight.

It makes the trembling shadows bright.

I read the future in the weave,

The pattern on your delicate thin sleeve.



Nothings written, you and me.

The winter day will end, youll see.

Its like a bird held in the hand.

Do you understand?

A fleeting moment, soft and brief,

A mix of joy and gentle grief.

The dusk will softly settle down.

The lights will flicker on in town.



A fleeting moment, soft and brief,

A mix of joy and gentle grief.

The dusk will softly settle down.

The lights will flicker on in town.



Nothings written you and me




Prompt for SUNO AI


Sad jazz with anguish about loss and loneliness, saxophone, piano, acoustic guitar, male and female voices, the first verse is a male voice, the second verse is a female voice, the third verse is a male voice, the fourth verse is a female voice, the choruses are performed by a duet.




Calendar



Its easy to get lost among the crowd,

To lose the clarity of faces, names, and dates,

Just leafing through a yellowed calendar,

And leave an inscription: Im forgot by all my mates.



Just leafing through a yellowed calendar,

And leave an inscription: Im forgot by all my mates.



To paste the stamps and send a letter off,

To where I lived not very long ago.

And wait for answers, feeling in my soul,

That this, for some strange reason, matters so.



And wait for answers, feeling in my soul,

That this, for some strange reason, matters so.



But to get lost inside the human void,

To not believe in her you once believed.

To wait for miracles with coming spring,

And smile at no one, taking your own leave.



To wait for miracles with coming spring,

And smile at no one, taking your own leave.



Our nostalgia has a thousand different shades,

And often its the past that seals our fate.

I will not know just what Ill miss the most

If I just say: It doesnt work that way.



I will not know just what Ill miss the most

If I just say: It doesnt work that way.



Its easy to get lost among the crowd

To lose the clarity of faces, names

And to get lost inside the human void

To not believe her

And often the past it seals our fate




Prompt for SUNO AI


Deep, whispered, intimate male baritone vocal, close-micd and breathy, The arrangement is minimalist and textural: centered around sparse, fingerpicked acoustic guitar that also provides subtle body percussion (tapping, knocking), A mournful cello line appears in the interludes, The song builds a melancholic atmosphere with ambient background pads, The structure is linear and melancholic, culminating in a stark breakdown where the vocals layer and collapse into dissonant whispers before fading into a silent, atmospheric outro with a faint, distorted clock tick, The overall feel is cinematic, deeply sad, and introspective, [Slowcore], [Alternative Folk], [Male Baritone Vocals], [Whispered Singing], [Acoustic Guitar], [Minimalist], [Ambient], [Cello], [Body Percussion], [Cinematic], [Melancholic], [Sadcore], [Lo-fi], [Atmospheric], [Emotional]




I Have No One to Tell About Her



Ive nobody to tell about her face

No one to trust with this consuming fire

This blaze of colors in a frantic race

That pulls me through each mad and vain desire



O, Silence! Silence is the poets art!

The keeper of the secret, foolish heart!

It thrusts me upwards through each ragged fall

And in the blinding dark, shows light to all!



I wish that someone knew  a stolen look

Our meetings, rare and trembling, and how then

Id hold her shoulders in a secret nook

And whisper her name, once and once again



O, Silence! Silence is my coffin shell!

It swallows every question, every yell!

It thrusts me upwards, to the cracking dome

So I alone can hear this ringing home!



Would someone share this sadness share the ache

And be a grateful witness, for trusts sake

To wrap the tale in a departing seal

A wafer for the souls that distance steals



Silence Silence is the poets craft!

The finest keeper of this passionate draft!

It pushes higher, spite of every tear!

And in the pitch-black night, lets light appear!



Pushes higher spite of every tear

And in the pitch-black night lets light appear

Ive nobody NOBODY to tell

Silence poet CRAFT!




Prompt for SUNO AI


Deep, smoky, theatrical male baritone voice, Complex structure blending ballad and avant-garde, Begins as a slow 5/4 jazz ballad with double bass and melancholic saxophone, Choruses shift dramatically to intense 4/4 marches, Features a spoken word bridge, Climactic third verse builds into a chaotic free-jazz breakdown with layered, distorted vocals, Ends with a melancholic instrumental outro, Dark, cinematic, emotionally volatile journey from restraint to collapse, [Dark Jazz], [Jazz Fusion], [Male Baritone Vocals], [Odd Time Signature], [Double Bass], [Saxophone Solo], [Spoken Word], [Avant-Garde Breakdown], [Cinematic], [Theatrical], [Emotional Journey], [Complex Structure]




The crystal ship



Through open doors, a crystal ship they bear,

Carried on the arms of servants, swift with care.

And in these strange days, an unknown soldier sighs,

Sings the march of parting, sings the song of goodbyes.



And in these strange days, an unknown soldier sighs,

Sings the march of parting, sings the song of goodbyes.



From the city of angels, the woman of dreams

Dances the sinister dances of shamanic schemes.

A squad from Spain perishes in the snow,

Burning the remnants of their caravans glow.



A squad from Spain perishes in the snow,

Burning the remnants of their caravans glow.



And theres no need to beat the horses in the eyes,

We cannot make them either sleep or cry.

And the quiet parade of my wild, desperate love,

Like five to one odds  is all for the fall, thereof.



And the quiet parade of my wild, desperate love,

Like five to one odds  is all for the fall, thereof.



And summer has almost vanished from our sight,

Around are only strange ones  strange folk, day and night.

And from the streets of love, we hear their footsteps near.

And I already know  they are our judges here.



And from the streets of love, we hear their footsteps near.

And I already know  they are our judges here.



Paris  city of dead poets, it waits

For me, with all my thirst and eternal fates.

And several lives, all passed within a dream,

Erase the meaning of the phrase: I love you, so it seems.



And several lives, all passed within a dream,

Erase the meaning of the phrase: I love you, so it seems.



Im here. I strive towards your castles and your lions,

Id give my soul for just a sip of your faiths reliance.

Take my songs, dont let me leave this place!

And someone uttered: Slam the doors shut! Shut this case!



Take my songs, dont let me leave this place!

And someone uttered: Slam the doors shut! Shut this!




Prompt for SUNO AI


A surreal, atmospheric jazz-noir ballad descending into apocalyptic noise, The core features a cold, detached male baritone vocal, a melancholic and dissonant tenor saxophone, a high, eerie flute, a detuned piano playing sparse clusters, and a plucked double bass, The song oscillates between moments of tense, slow-burning jazz and disruptive sections of electronic noise, glitches, and instrumental chaos, The mood is elegant yet deeply unsettling, portraying a world and a psyche coming apart through a lens of dark, avant-garde jazz.




This Woman



Ill soon stop caring, or so I claim,

That this woman just plays her little game,

That shes bored, stares out into the garden, mute, and fades (fades)

Like a minty snowflake on my lips, in shades.



That shes bored, stares out into the garden, mute, and fades (fades)

Like a minty snowflake on my lips, in shades.



And in the silvery September light,

All calls to reason are a pointless fight.

Shes still lethally dangerous to me, a threat (a threat)

That wave of her hair down to her shoulders, wet.



Shes still lethally dangerous to me, a threat (a threat)

That wave of her hair down to her shoulders, wet.



As long as I still want to sit and stare

At patterns on her old wallpaper, there,

In autumns gloom, the headlights come and pass (they pass),

I wait, I hope that she will sing at last.



In autumns gloom, the headlights come and pass (they pass),

I wait, I hope that she will sing at last.



The groan of piano keys, that somber sound,

I wont forget, but to her, its not bound.

Only at night her wild grief will cease (will cease)

Within the helplessness of our speechs peace.



Only at night her wild grief will cease (will cease)

Within the helplessness of our speechs peace.



But when will I stop caring, tell me when,

That this woman just plays her game again,

Doesnt believe, doesnt call, doesnt meet (doesnt meet)

With a light smile upon her lips so sweet?



Doesnt believe, doesnt call, doesnt meet (doesnt meet)

With a light smile upon her lips so sweet?



I will NEVER stop caring, no, not at all,

That this woman

just plays her game

and like a snowflake fades




Prompt for SUNO AI


A passionate, melancholic Russian blatnoy romans or jazz-ballad in the style of Alexander Rosenbaum, The core is a raw, gravelly, and deeply emotional male baritone voice, accompanied by a virtuosic seven-string guitar, The arrangement is enriched with a warm grand piano playing blues-tinged chords, a walking double bass, soft brushed jazz drums, and a soulful, mournful tenor saxophone that provides emotional counterpoints, The song builds from an intimate confession to a dramatic, smoky cabaret climax before fading into a resigned, whispered outro, The mood is deeply nostalgic, painfully romantic, and full of fatalistic passion.




Dance!



Its been the way in Rus since ancient days 

March is not a spring of crimson rays,

August is not a summer, scorching hot,

And not a cornucopia weve got.

It is Pandoras little box, instead,

With patterns, scratches, symbols, painted threads,

With witchcraft mutters, half-forgotten lore,

Half-erased, half-worn down to the core.

We open it, poor wretches, year by year,

To our own doom, as did our ancestors.

We open to the dance of the swan-bird,

To the blue-teared princess, every word.

If she waves her sleeve to the right 

A distant province howls in endless night.

If she starts to dance towards the left 

The widows and the orphans are bereft.



Dance!

Prance!

Wave your sleeve!

Wave your sleeve!

Everything around you, make it leave!

Shatter it to pieces! Make it grieve!



That princess, our dear lady, lost her love,

Her Ivan vanished, like a hand in glove.

He vanished in a foreign, distant land,

No gallant hero, but a leaf, unmanned.

His bones were scattered through the gullies near

By wolves and foxes, filled with ancient fear.

His heart was pecked by crows of iron-black,

That from the heavens to the earth came back.

Her soul still waits for Vanyas letter, frail,

Through endless night, her eyelids never pale.

She prays to God, weaves shrouds without a sound,

Takes whispered spells from madwomen around.

She dreams and thinks her darling is alive,

Snoring on a carpet, like a kalifh,

Green wine is bubbling in his cup so deep,

Forbidden to remember her in sleep.



Dance!

Prance!

Brandish your sabre!

Brandish your sabre!

Make the womens heads begin to waver!

Send their senses reeling! Show no favor!



And from the box, the patterned, wicked chest,

They drag a wonder to the worlds behest:

A self-laid tablecloth of finest lace,

From foreign silk, to cover all disgrace.

Theyll drink and revel for a day and night,

For day and night make gusli strings snap tight.

For some  its woe and ruin, mothers pain,

For some  small pearls, for some  the waters vain.

At the tables head, our sovereign king

Drinks in the flattering toasts they bring.

And in his caftan, a red ticket lies,

To Ipatiev House, where darkness lies.

Into his left ear, a foul-mouthed minister

Hums false denunciations, sinister.

Into his right ear, Subutai the bold

Hisses fables of a power to hold.



Dance!

Prance!

Chug the wine and beer!

Chug the wine and beer!

Send your armies marching, full of fear!

Towards Kursk, let the battle lines draw near!



And from that casket, they also take

A flying carpet, plush, for heavens sake,

To shuttle shameless girls on public funds

For shopping sprees in far and foreign lands,

In lands of foes, where enemies reside,

In secret from their wives, with nothing to hide.

And for a long time now, the spacious earth,

The lands and rivers, have known their new birth 

Divided up by kennel masters, bleak.

The petty clerk, the deacon, strong and weak,

The thug, the kulak feel their power rise,

They mock the serfs before their very eyes,

The dark, the orphaned, and the poor in need.

They take seven hides to satisfy their greed,

The eighth they steal and in the banks they keep,

The ninth theyll from the childrens futures reap,

And in the palace, with a nail, theyll fix

That final skin upon the wall of bricks.



Whore around!

Spin!

Export the oil and gas!

Export the oil and gas!

Write the whores into the expense reports mass!

Write them off! Let the whole damn world pass!




Prompt for SUNO AI


An aggressive, hypnotic, and theatrical Slavic folk-post punk metal anthem, Male vocal shifts between a rhythmic, narrative chant, a raw, shouted command in the choruses, and a hoarse, screaming rant, Core rhythm is driven by distorted folk instruments (balalaika/domra) and heavy tribal percussion, Features a sinister, droning accordion, electric guitar riffs, and chaotic sound design (tearing fabric, clashing metal, breaking glass), The song is structured as a suite with explosive, mantra-like choruses and a final collapse into noise, The mood is mythical, sarcastic, furious, and ritualistic, blending ancient folklore with modern political satire.




Heavenly Hussar



In army signal corps, a frantic staff calls made.

The signalmen drop out, one by one, their final card is played.

They go to join the hussars of heaven, up above the fray,

Who haul from hell near Volchansk and Chasiv Yars bloody maw

The shoulder boards and brand-new stars for colonels at Headquarters.



On patched-up body armor, poppies bloom a crimson red!

Plantain petals stick to army boot soles, like the dead!

And a mosaic of letters is no sign of life, its clear!

And where is life now, not the madness waiting for news we fear?!



Late evening, a childs sun, a little wheel, will downward roll,

Disturb guitar strings with its tail, a cat that flees, a soul,

Slipping to the past. Validol, a deck of cards, kings and aces, and the stooges,

On TV, bleat and spew their lies, and outside, loud and clear,

The ambulance is howling, and you want to block it all out, to shut down every sense.



On patched-up body armor, poppies bloom a crimson red!

Plantain petals stick to army boot soles, like the dead!

And a mosaic of letters is no sign of life, its clear!

And where is life now, not the madness waiting for news we fear?!



Lumps of clay will hit the boards like July, so deaf, so sore.

The stifling heat, the emptiness, you cant shout to heavens door,

No strength or power reaches there. The heavenly hussars take five,

And count the ammunition they managed to keep alive.

A mobile phone, black as a raven, in a worn-out pouch lies still,

A silent, final testament to a long-overdue will.



On patched-up armor poppies crimson red

Plantain petals stick to boot soles like the dead

Mosaic of letters no sign of life

Where is life now just the madness and the strife



The heavenly hussars are on their break

And count the rounds for heavens sake

A mobile phone black as a raven in the dust

A silent, final metal rust




Prompt for SUNO AI


A tragic, intense, and pulsing military hard rock song in the style of classic Russian protest rock, Features a raw, strained, and emotionally explosive male baritone vocal, shifting from talk-sung verses to shouting, desperate choruses, Instrumentation is built on a steady, marching drumbeat, a heavy and melodic distorted electric guitar riff, and a driving bassline, Includes a searing, mournful electric guitar solo, The song ends in a broken, exhausted collapse and a whispered outro, The mood is grim, angry, desperate, and deeply tragic, with a strong anti-war message.




Girl from a Star



Eighty-four. The March holidays unwind

The roads spiky puddles sleep with an anxious mind

Beneath the sharp crust of the mornings brief, thin ice.

A little ship of peeled-off pine-tree bark

Is leaning with a broken mast, a pens blue mark,

Frozen in like the Chelyuskin in time and space.



The days rustle with felt of tomorrows slogans, bold,

Of uskoreniye, intensifikatsiya, the stories told,

And click like amber beads of drunken holidays grace

On pages of the walls tear-off calendar in its place.



A sunbeam, like a thief, slips through the window crack,

Confuses tin-eyed arrows on the clock, throws time off track,

It mixes midday twelve with six pms embrace,

Ticks with a dust speck at the bewildered cats face,

It pulls me by the collar to the street, with birds so loud,

And dips my face into a ultraviolet waterfalls shroud.



And when at evening, chimney pipes begin to whisper low

With TV antenna masts pressed to them in a row,

And whimper mournfully like mangy, lonely strays,

Superstitious housewives, looking up from TVs haze,

Smear sunsets horizon with Bulgarian peppers fiery rust,

Pierce skys mourning curtain with their mop handles thrust.

And between the threads of patches spreading far and wide,

The stars wink down at us, with velvet polished side.



From one of them, a girl is watching over me,

A girl to whom no tragedy will ever be,

A girl, a devils dozen years ahead, unseen,

Unrecognized by me in solfeggios routine,

Right on the border where the light and darkness blend



A girl who gave me back the past I thought was spent,

And took away the future where she was but lent,

A future where she turned out just a passing guest

A girl who gave me back the past and stole the rest



From one of them a girl is watching over me




Prompt for SUNO AI


A dream-pop and shoegaze ballad with strong nostalgic and cosmic elements, Male vocal shifts between a warm, filtered, narrative baritone and a clearer, awestruck tone cutting through dense music, The foundation is built on warm, slightly dusty synth pads reminiscent of 80s Soviet electronics and clean, echoing guitars, The song features two dramatic, cascading walls of sound (dense layers of shimmering, distorted guitars with reverb/delay) that represent moments of magical, blinding revelation, The arrangement includes subtle, atmospheric sound design (distant children, fuzzy TV), The mood is deeply nostalgic, tender, magical, and ultimately epically sad, blending intimate childhood memory with a sense of cosmic wonder.




Afterword



Afterword and afterlifes keen edge,

Like scripting your own final, pre-recorded pledge.

Afterword  it follows the last word,

Afterlife  a realm by deaths hand stirred.



You and I will never write that perfect line,

We can only mock the old design,

In the afterword of silence, thick and deep,

Where our childhoods afterlife lies fast asleep.



Thirty years, just three days in my sight!

Friend, if I just knew you won the fight!

A bitter aftertaste, a lingering trace,

Of hollow greetings from that time and place.



You and I will never write that perfect line,

We can only mock the old design,

In the afterword of silence, thick and deep,

Where our childhoods afterlife lies fast asleep.



So many faces have now left the stage,

Classmates resting under earth, a turning page.

Afterword  it follows the last word,

After-fame  a tale thats never heard.



You and I will never write that perfect line,

We can only mock the old design,

In the afterword of silence, thick and deep,

Where our childhoods afterlife lies fast asleep.



A keeper of lost time, with no work to do,

Hooked upon the past hes clinging to.

After-feeling  numbness after fire,

The day past tomorrow, closer to the pyre.



You and I will never write that perfect line,

We can only mock the old design,

In the afterword of silence, thick and deep,

Where our childhoods afterlife lies fast asleep.



You and I will never write that line

We can only mock the old design

In the afterword of silence deep

The afterlife where our childhood lies asleep




Prompt for SUNO AI


A grand, slow, and melancholic 80s-style rock power ballad, Deep, resonant, and emotionally strained male baritone vocal, singing strongly rhymed, poetic lyrics, Rich instrumentation: clean, sustained electric guitar motifs, warm and sweeping string sections (cello, viola), piano, solid bass, and slow, deliberate drums, The arrangement builds powerfully with each chorus, featuring a melodic and sorrowful electric guitar solo as the emotional climax, The song ends with a solemn fade-out, The mood is nostalgic, philosophical, deeply sad, and monumentally beautiful, with rhyming lyrics driving the melody.




Our Days



Our days

The holy inquisitions feasting once again,

The bonfires of vain glory burn for deafened men,

Who heed the call of gold, and heed the call of sin.

Gas is our dear father, oil our mother thin.

A mourning cypress stands, a monument so grand,

A framed portrait of a man, behind his back,

Holding a guitar and a rifle, cut from lifes track

A plastic Chinese fake, a cheap and tawdry brand,

A cheap fake of Karlshorst, last centurys faded symbol.



Our days The holy inquisitions feasting once again!

Our days A cheap fake of Karlshorst for modern men!

And Potsdam



Our days

The triumph belongs to hack journalists, the worst,

True masters of the linguistic art, of two professions first.

They fall asleep as Guelphs, as Ghibellines awake,

From one lord to the next, their loyalty they shake.

They mesmerize the flock with incantations, foul and thick,

Of Solzhenitsyns rotten, stinking, noxious trick.

They slurp the slop and swill right from the masters feeding trough,

And lick the boots of tomorrows lord, with oily, practiced cough.



Our days The triumph belongs to hack journalists, the worst!

Our days They slurp the slop right from the masters feeding trough!

They praise the whip and gingerbread!



Our days

The middle-aged now vote directly with their heart,

They do not weep into a widows cotton art.

Without a pity, they cash out their yearly stash,

To buy a better, foreign-made walkie-talkie in a flash,

To pick some army boots, to haggle for a armored vest.

They send officials, our eternal sorrows pest,

To hell, with a ripe curse, a mother-based protest.

They leave  they do not sing. They come back in the lines

Of news reports and captured town triumphant signs.



Our days The middle-aged now vote directly with their heart!

Our days They come back as a report about a captured part!

Eternal memory



A cluster of roadside bellflowers, by the way,

Is flooded with red wax and thick molasses sway

And yet, when I see a girl in a spring coat of burgundy,

With a red balloon, and with a fidgety scars bend,

Above her right temple, drawing my gaze without end,

I feel, accountless, like in youth, you must know,

My head is spinning, spinning, spinning even so



Our days when I see a spring girl

Our days my head is spinning like in youth

Like before

Our days The inquisitions feasting

Our days A cheap fake of Karlshorst

And Potsdam

Our days Hack journalists

Our days They slurp the slop

Our days Vote with their heart

Our days A report about a capture




Prompt for SUNO AI


A sarcastic and shifting art-post punk satire that ends in pure lyricism, Male vocal shifts between a sneering, spoken-sung baritone, chaotic layered shouts, and finally a clean, vulnerable singing voice, The song is a suite of styles: it begins with heavy post-punk/industrial; shifts to grotesque cabaret jazz with clarinet/sax; then to cold martial industrial; before collapsing into silence, The finale is a stark contrast: a simple, beautiful acoustic guitar arpeggio and a tender, sincere vocal delivery, The chaotic choruses return as ghostly, distorted echoes in the final reprise, fading behind the acoustic melody, The mood evolves from bitter and cynical to tragically hopeful and human.




La Ville Blanche


La ville blanche ne f?te rien, ne sonne pas,

Elle sort ses enfants de sous les dcombres, bas.

Elle sort ses fils, ses filles, de la poussi?re et des gravats,

Et les compte dun trait de plume, voil? le contrat.

Quinze noms sont crits dun seul et froid coup de stylo,

Un amendement amer ? un vieux jeu cruel et beau.

Et combien dautres suivront, ajouts ? cette ligne?

Une question dans lair, comme un vin aigre qui signe.



Quinze dun trait, et combien dautres ? venir?

Quinze dun trait, le tambour va-t-il finir?

La plume gratte des chiffres, sans pouvoir les gurir

Trop pour compter, trop pour en souffrir



Les lignes rouges sont redessines dun geste souverain,

L?-bas, derri?re les montagnes, sur un sol lointain.

Aux taudis de r?ver ? la paix quils nauront pas,

Aux palais dengraisser dans leurs conforts et leurs appas.

Et dans la vitrine prune dune rue qui porte un nom,

Un tas de pierre calcaire refl?te un lilas, un summum.

Une ambulance gyrophare, sir?ne au cri per?ant,

Fonce ? travers la ville sous un ciel se ber?ant.



Aux taudis de r?ver, aux palais de festoyer,

Tandis que le chagrin plante son levain, son foyer.

La plume gratte les chiffres, ne sachant apaiser

(Allons enfants vers un test ? briser)



? quelques centaines de kilom?tres de ce lieu de deuil,

Un Fran?ais aux cheveux gris, au visage en cueil,

De la vieille Brigade Internationale, une fragile fleur,

Attend ? Besan?on sa dportation, sa peur.



Il sirote sa vodka russe, touche son insigne Garde,

Et dans sa moustache jaunie, un murmure qui darde :

Non, rien de rien Je ne regrette rien, cest tarde

Il allume un Belomor froiss, expire un nuage fum,

Et lance ? la chaise vide une derni?re pense :

Eh bien, mon ami Texas accueille linvite, hein?

Laccueil est aussi froid quil la toujours t pour rien



QUINZE DUN TRAIT! ET COMBIEN DAUTRES ? MOURIR?

GRATTS SUR PAPIER, LES PALAIS POUR DMENTIR!

LA PLUME GRATTE LES CHIFFRES JUSQU'? LENCRIER TARIR!

TROP POUR COMPTER! AUCUNE RPONSE AU DSIR!



La ville blanche ne f?te rien les sort de terre

Quinze dun trait plus de paix sur cette sph?re

Non je ne regrette rien

Mon ami Texas

Quinze dun trait




The White City



The white city holds no feast, it makes no sound,

Just pulls its children from the broken, bloody ground.

It pulls its sons and daughters from the rubble and the dust,

And counts them with a pen, because its justice they must.

Fifteen names are written with a single, cold stroke,

A bitter, black amendment to a cruel and ancient joke.

And how many more will follow, added to this wretched line?

A question hanging silent in the air, like cheap, sour wine.



Fifteen with a stroke, and how many more to come?

Fifteen with a stroke, beating on a war-time drum.

The pen keeps scratching numbers on the page, a pointless sum

Too many to count, too many to overcome



The lines of red are redrawn with a sovereigns hand,

Somewhere far beyond the mountains, in a distant, foreign land.

So let the hovels dream of peace theyll never see,

And let the palaces grow fat in their satiated glee.

[The harmonica returns, playing a twisted, ironic variation of a folk tune.]

And in a plum-dark window, on a street that bears a name,

A pile of shattered limestone reflects a lilacs flame.

A blue light ambulance, with a sirens desperate cry,

Is rushing through the city, underneath a wounded sky.



So let the hovels dream, and let the palaces feast,

While sorrow plants its bitter, sharp, and everlasting yeast.

The pen keeps scratching numbers, granting neither peace nor rest

Allons enfants to a never-ending test



A few hundred kilometers from that mournful place,

A grey-haired Frenchman with a tired, weathered face,

From the old International Brigade, a fading trace,

Sits in Besan?on airport, in deportations grace.



He sips his Russian vodka, pulls his Guard badge near,

And through his yellowed mustache, words you almost hear:

Non, rien de rien Je ne regrette rien, my dear

He lights a crumpled Belomor, exhales a cloud of smoke,

And offers to the empty chair a final, whispered joke:

Eh bien, mon ami Texas accueille linvite, see?

The welcome is as cold as it has always been for me



FIFTEEN with a stroke! And how many more to DIE?

Scratched on paper, while the palaces just LIE!

The pen keeps scratching numbers till the ink runs DRY!

Too many to count! No answer to the WHY!



The white city holds no feast just pulls them from the ground

Fifteen with a stroke and no more peace is found

Non je ne regrette rien

Mon ami Texas

Fifteen a stroke




Prompt for SUNO AI


A raw, angry protest folk ballad with elements of blues and jazz, Male vocal shifts between a gritty, chanting baritone in the verses/choruses and a world-weary, spoken-sung croon in the jazz bridge, Core instrumentation: rhythmic acoustic guitar, mournful harmonica, heavy kick drum, The choruses swell with dissonant electric guitar, The middle bridge shifts to a smoky jazz trio (electric piano, double bass, brushed drums) with a tenor saxophone solo, The song ends in a chaotic breakdown and is ultimately silenced by the sound of a jet engine, The mood is bitter, sarcastic, tragic, and defiant, The lyrics are strongly rhymed, driving the melody and the message.




Farewell


From white and silent mummies I have learned

About your hasty exit, my beloved, my concern.

The trembling nightingales, caught in the chill of May,

Stumbling, for the last time, in your honor tried to play

A farewell symphony in D-minor, cold and grey.



Life turned out not a feast, but just a stinging nettles bed.

And though you crushed it with your little heels until it bled,

Until the juice, the bloody green, the calluses were shed,

Proving your invented superiority, widespread,

It only burned more fiercely, scorching hot and red,

You and the blind ones following where you led.



It left upon the skin such deep and scarring lines,

That passersby mistook for wrinkles, cruel designs,

Which made your childhood face, now twisted and confined,

A mask that acid ruined, malformed and maligned.



So what Rest in peace now,

Goddess of my restless, fevered dreams.

I will not desecrate your memory

With lying, hollow blasphemies.



Who knows, perhaps well soon collide

Upon the steps of one of countless, vast,

And endless, echoing Asgards galleries at last.

A pity, but well have nothing left to say

Well have nothing left to say



It left upon the skin such deep and scarring lines,

That passersby mistook for wrinkles, cruel designs,

Which made your childhood face, now twisted and confined,

A mask that acid ruined, malformed and maligned.




He Was My Friend


What happened to the skinny, hollow-cheeked boy,

Dressed up in a spacious, threadbare, patched-up, grey,

His fathers old greatcoat, so worn out and coy,

Who fell asleep, curled tightly like a child at play,

On a September potato bed, under the sky,

Beneath a whimsical and capricious southern breeze,

Among the chaos of discarded, dirty, yellow piles,

Of tubers lying scattered, fallen from the trees?



Did anybody hear?

What happened to the skinny, hollow-cheeked boy,

All wrapped up in that grey coat, his fathers joy?

Did anybody hear?

He used to be my friend



Did anybody hear? Some people used to say,

He perished in the second year of war, theyd claim

While others argued, swore he drank his life away

And froze inside a snowdrift, on New Years, what a shame,

Not reaching his old house, just childrens steps away,

The house that stood there stiff, with pine smoke in its frame,

The house he always feared. A magpie, on the fence,

Brought gossip yesterday, a tale that made no sense:

That yesterdays young athlete married well, and hence,

Now holds a major post, with power and pretense,

Inside the municipal administrations walls, immense.



Did anybody hear?

He perished in the second year of war?

Or froze inside a snowdrift on New Years night?

Did anybody hear?

He used to be my friend



They gossiped he had married to improve his state,

And turned into a serious official, cold and great.

And then they say his face would twist in awkward spite,

Whenever someone mentioned his old villages name,

Or names of those he went to school with, all the same,

Back in that distant, half-mythical childhoods light,

Where once he took a nap upon a potato bed,

Behind some carelessly thrown buckets, crooked, red,

When even in his wildest dreams, inside his head,

He could not dream that twenty paper years ahead,

Hed blow up on a mine and stupidly lie dead,

And drain into the earth, a stream of stupid red.



Did anybody hear?

He turned into a heartless bureaucrat?

Or blew up on a stupid anti-personnel mine?

Did anybody hear?

He used to be my friend



He blew up on a mine? Instead of turning to

A self-content and well-fed office-rat, a clerk,

In one of second-rate departments, it is true,

Of city management, whod bow with practiced smirk,

And bring reports up to his worship, the burgomaster?

And on the Sundays, take his sickly, greasy spouse

Out to the dacha, and with Shakespearean forced laughter,

For the hundredth time, would torture her with an old tale,

About a non-existent September, without fail,

When he fell asleep on soft earth, finely tilled,

Perhaps by his own spade, perhaps by a blast concealed,

And, tossing in the black soil, with his strength now stilled,

Complaining of his tired arms, he suddenly could feel

An icy chill, that smelled of potato tops and champagne,

And managed to make out a toast from someones voice:

To the coming year, you lads! What a choice!

And in the end, the fool, he missed the final joys,

The last long episode he loved, the final scene,

Of his beloved Treasure Island, left unseen.



Did anybody hear?

He, bowing, brings reports up to the burgomaster?

Or feels the icy, final, creeping chill of death?

Did anybody hear?

He used to be my friend



What happened to the skinny, hollow-cheeked boy,

Dressed up in a spacious, threadbare, patched-up, grey,

His fathers old greatcoat

Who fell asleep, curled tightly like a child at play,

On a September potato bed, under the sky



Did anybody hear?

He perished in the second year of war?

Or turned into a heartless bureaucrat?

Did anybody hear?

He used to be my friend




Only You Wont Repeat



And once again Im searchin through a crowd of faceless mass,

A thousand bodies passin, made of wire, smoke, and glass.

Im scanin every profile, breakin down each silhouette,



Im searchin

Your face.

Searchin

Your face.



Is that Ivan Tsarevich, polished to a brilliant sheen,

By the razor edge of pompous melancholy, cold and mean?

Or Ivanushka the fool, whos snorin in a gutters hold,

Right outside a roadside dive, a story left untold?

But only your face



Im searchin

Your face.

Searchin

Only your face



And once again Im listenin to the avalanche of sound,

The nighttime radio ether, spreadin static all around,

It smells of strawbries, ozone, and of baskets filled with dust,

From the closet, in the corner, covered in a greyish crust.



Im listenin

For your voice.

Listenin

For your voice



Im hopin to make out your favorite song, the one we knew,

Its cracklin with its notes up on some restaurant vinyl, worn and blue,

It seeps into the napkin, leaves a pattern, faint and true.

But only your voice



Im listenin

For your voice.

Listenin

Only for your voice



And in the mornin, once again, from images I flee,

The ones that rot alive inside the prison of times sea,

A predawn guiding planet, dim beneath the carriage bow,

Its lead by just your smile, and I am followin it now.



It leads me

Your smile.

Leads me

Your smile.



Your smile is like torn heather, colored in a violet hue,

A herald of a distant road that I must struggle through,

A path across the comin winters chaos, cold and new.

But only your smile



It leads me

Your smile.

Leads me

Only your smile



And in the line of those who take my hand and pull me straight,

Through alleyways inside the kingdom of the shadows weight

There isnt any you.



Among them

Theres no you.

Among them

Theres no you.



The noise of wakin city street, the corridor doors creak,

The neighbors steps upstairs, the floorboards weak and tired squeak

It all will happen once again, return, repeat this week.

Only you wont repeat

Theres only no you



Im searchin your face

Listenin your voice

It leads me your smile

Only you wont repeat

Theres only no you

Only you wont repeat

No you




Prompt for SUNO AI


A dynamic and emotionally chaotic genre-blending track, The core alternates between energetic, strained male rap verses over sharp trap beats and moments of dreamy, autotuned chillwave/lo-fi with sad piano loops, Includes a brief, grotesque burlesque circus interlude and heavy dubstep wobbles for dramatic effect, The climax strips down to a raw, spoken-word delivery over a clean, slow lo-fi hip-hop beat, The finale is a dissolving collage of glitching beats, distorted vocals, and noise, The overall mood is desperate, theatrical, obsessed, and ultimately collapsing into digital despair.




On the Other Side of the Rainbow



The cats, they know the score, they see the whole design.

They never ask for much, they draw a quiet line.

They take just what is given, neither less nor more,

And watch lifes comings, goings, from a silent door.

They do not fawn or flatter, they dont beg or plead,

They simply watch the human and the canine breed.

And when the pain of age begins to slow their stride,

They find a place to vanish, somewhere deep inside.



They do not weep in self-pity when the end is near.

They just release a sigh, a heavy, old-world tear.

No one should ever witness weakness in their grace,

As they prepare to leave without a single trace.

Death is a private slumber, not a public show.

A thing of quiet dignity, the wise all know.



But they will wait to meet the one who called them friend,

To walk with them right to the very, very end.

To make the lonely crossing not a path of fear,

To be the steady presence when the ways unclear.

Theyll wait a quarter century, or even more,

For time has lost its meaning on that distant shore

On the other side



And on the rainbows other side, they stretch and wake,

And all the ancient stiffness from their bones they shake.

They sharpen eager claws on some celestial tree,

And play a game of tag with an old man with a key.

He grumbles, points towards a bright and massive gate,

Where some will choose to walk and leave behind their fate.



But they will wait to meet the one who called them friend,

To walk with them right to the very, very end.

To make the lonely crossing not a path of fear,

To be the steady presence when the ways unclear.

Theyll wait a quarter century, or even more,

For time has lost its meaning on that distant shore

On the other side



On the other side of the rainbow

Time does not exist.

There is no hour, no year, no history to persist.

Theres only just a moment

A single, endless, now



Yes They will be waiting for us on the other side of the rainbow




Prompt for SUNO AI


A melancholic and philosophical blues-rock ballad, The vocal is a clear, dry, calm baritone delivered in a speak-sing, storytelling manner, The instrumental core features a clean, expressive, and melodic electric guitar with a slightly gritty texture, warm Hammond organ pads providing depth, a solid bassline, and slow, steady drums, The arrangement is dynamic: verses are intimate and sparse, focusing on the narrative vocal, while the chorus swells powerfully with richer guitar chords, prominent sustaining organ, and subtle soulful backing vocals, creating a solemn emotional peak, The song includes a lyrical and melodic electric guitar solo, The outro is a serene, spoken-word section over fading instrumentation, The overall mood is wise, deeply loyal, patiently melancholic, and beautifully resigned.




Weather Forecast



The weather is unchanged

Spring has gone missing, lost without a trace

Somewhere between October and Aprils grace.

And on the eve of Easter, and the time

Of cherry blossoms in the Mays sweet prime,

A wet November snow beneath a gloomy morning sky

Breaks off the frostbitten branches, makes them lie,

Of poplars trembling in a fever, standing high.

And their unopened buds, they crunch like Donetsk glass

Beneath the heels of townsfolk, sleepy as they pass,

Who rush to catch their morning bus, who rush to mass.



The weather is unchanged

Spring has gone missing, lost without a trace

It crunches like Donetsk glass

It crunches like Donetsk glass



A thunderstorm out West

For years weve heard about the gleaming, bright

Successes on the fronts, the taking of another

Forest wardens hut, old Mykolas hovel,

At the cost of hundreds of our Volkssturm lives.

But theres no turning point, just wider grow

The alleys of the fallen in the graveyards row,

In provincial Rhine towns, emptying out slow,

Where theres no work for anyone at all,

And so, someone has got to take the fall.



There is no turning point, just wider grow

The alleys of the fallen in the graveyards row.

And theres no work for anyone at all,

And so, someone has got to take the fall.

And so, someone has got to take the fall.



The forecasters debate the cyclones might

Approaching from the North and North-East way.

Again we hear the calls to pull the belts up tight,

And better not around the waist, without delay,

But right around the throat, your own, without a fight,

Since the Propaganda Ministry will still convey

Its promised promises, to slay

Inflation, corruption, and the other sworn

Adversaries of the peoples unity, well-worn.



To pull the belts up tight,

And better not around the waist,

But right around the throat, your own, without a fight.

The peoples unity!



Rain and thunderstorms throughout the coming week

And the loneliness of one whos stepped across the line,

When friends are buried, one by one, and you resign.

The future holds no pain, the past is no excuse

For gossip, or for empty, idle talk thats of no use.

Just pointless, leisure chatter, over bottles of cheap wine,

In a frosted-over hostel room, a faded sign.

Nothing warms you like the whiskeys sharp, defining heat,

And the image of a tabby cat, who used to find her seat

Each night upon the pillows ridge, to make it neat,

To press her saffian paws against her masters pajamas, sweet,

And sleep so deeply, buried in that tender, old retreat.



And the loneliness of one whos stepped across the line,

Who buries friends, whose future holds no pain.

Only whiskey saves, and the image of a cat,

Sleeping sweetly on the pajamas

No gossip. Empty. Idle



The weather is unchanged

Spring has gone missing

It crunches like Donetsk glass

It crunches



There is no turning point

The alleys of the fallen

And so, someone has got to

take the fall.




Prompt for SUNO AI


Dark jazz-noir cabaret, A cold, detached, spoken-word male baritone vocal delivers a weather forecast in a near-monotone, The core is a repetitive, dissonant, and melancholic piano chord progression, Accompaniment includes skittering brushed jazz drums, a deep electronic pulse, and a double bass, A tenor saxophone (or muted trumpet) is used expressively: playing sustained dissonant notes, jagged despairing lines, and distorted shrieks, The song features abrupt shifts in texture: from claustrophobic piano verses to chaotic noise sections, stripping down to a sparse, lonely bass and piano interlude, and ending in a complete musical collapse, Includes sound design: breaking glass, radio static, a distorted snippet of a cheerful tune, The mood is bleak, cynical, claustrophobic, and profoundly melancholic.




nime



Let life just rest for once, rest from life.

And let them catch their breath, count the losses and the strife,

Of aging, balding men with souls all torn and frayed,

Shy and awkward boys inside, whose light begins to fade.

Dreaming to start it all again, past fifty, out of date,

With hypertension and a solid belly, man, that just cant wait

To show its deep contempt for any morning exercise or weight



So let life rest, oh, let it rest from life itself, they plead.

And let them count the cost of every unfulfilled need.

For aging, balding men with teenage souls, displaced,

Shy and awkward boys who dream, though time cannot be erased

To start it all again



Dont shatter into piercing shards the illusions of the broke,

The unshaved sorry souls who missed lifes most important turn,

The highway linking dates of birth to where the ashes burn.

Just leave some coins to bury them, the simple joy to take a stroll,

Through the nearest square, cut up by tiles, to make their evening whole,

And, cat-like, squinting secretly, to lick their chops and gaze,

At passing Jungfraus, twenty-ish, lost in their sunny haze



So let life rest, oh, let it rest from life itself, they plead

Let it rest

And let them count the cost of every unfulfilled need

Count the cost



For youthful nymphs, these aging men simply do not exist.

Their worlds a different orbit, sealed with a dismissive twist.

They laugh with friends in cafes, chat with guys who text and scheme

For meetings that might end in sweat on sheets, a fleeting dream.

Their bodies fresh and confident, a currency they spend

On boys their age, for nights that have a clear and certain end.

While the others watch from benches, with a dull and aching sense,

Condemned to be the audience, at their own lifes expense.



They wait at home for fish soup in a bowl,

Pills for the high blood pressure, pills to calm the aching soul

Chamomile tea to ease the bloated belly, take its toll.

And also  wife in hair curlers, and a son, or maybe daughter 

Fans of anime. At fifteen, nothing in the world is shorter

Than school and boring homework, and parental talk thats fraught



Japan for them is dreamland  sakura, a volcano

In Tokyo, the streets are filled with heroes from the screen,

With huge sad eyes and love that tears right through, unseen.

The only goal the kids have got is just to run and flee,

To let life rest from life itself, and never more to see

The restless, churning adolescent souls, you see,

Wrapped up inside the worn-out carcasses of men like these



start it all again

and count the losses

start it all again

inside a worn-out carcass

let life rest




Prompt for SUNO AI


Dark contemporary R&B fused with trap and dubstep, Male vocal with clear autotune, shifting between a weary, conversational trap flow and a smooth, melancholic, multi-layered R&B singing, The core is a sleek, atmospheric, and moody trap beat (808s, crisp hats, melancholic synth), The song is punctuated by sharp, sarcastic, and aggressive dubstep drops (wobbly bass, metallic sounds) at key cynical moments, Features a glitched, chaotic bridge built around a distorted anime sample and a massive dubstep breakdown, The finale features a malfunctioning, glitching beat and vocal, Includes subtle sound design (traffic, domestic sounds), The overall mood is cynically introspective, self-deprecating, sleekly modern, and darkly humorous.




Passager du Bellerophon



Lancien passager du  Bellerophon,

Dans un frac couleur tabac, r?p jusqu? la corde,

Et un tricorne poussireux, enfonc sur le front,

Est assis sur un f?t ? essence vide, comme sur un tr?ne.

Il toise les dunes de la c?te sud, br?lantes et nues,

O? doit se jouer son dernier week-end, sa derni?re issue.



O? doit se jouer son dernier week-end, sa derni?re issue

On ne trouve pas de gens intrpides dans ceux qui ont ? perdre.



Le roulis, le mal de mer, la maladie maudite,

Le brouillard matinal, humide, qui avale tout, le banc de sable maudit

La compagnie des  allis jurs et lternel opposant.

Les douilles jaunes sur le sable blanc, alignes,

Comme des cierges fondus sur la neige russe, illimite.



...Comme des cierges fondus sur la neige russe, illimite

Ninterrompez jamais un ennemi qui est en train de commettre une erreur.



Les  Junkers se dversent de la rgion nomme Enfer.

Une photo du Colonel Aureliano, dit-on,

Derri?re les fissures glissantes, en toile daraigne, du pare-brise du Renault fracass

Un camion, affaiss sur ses essieux briss, fait pour transporter les morts

Du rivage immense vers une grande fosse commune, un m?me sort.



Un homme pas tr?s grand avec une mitrailleuse, qui, haletant,

Crache une salive am?re, essuie la sueur de son front

Avec un mouchoir de batiste, et vise ? prsent

La nue dacier, bourdonnante, de prdateurs venus de lEst,

Et entre ses dents, il siffle, dans un dernier souffle:  Merde!



Du rivage immense vers une grande fosse commune, un m?me sort.

Apr?s ma chute la fortune mordonnait de mourir, et lhonneur mordonnait de vivre.



Lancien passager du  Bellerophon,

Dans un frac couleur tabac, r?p jusqu? la corde,

G?t fig, parpill sur le sable, son mouvement achev,

Tout pr?s du f?t ? essence vide, sous le soleil lev,

Comme dans le tombeau de lH?tel des Invalides.

Et le tricorne transperc dune balle, pr?s de lui, guide

Le regard vers la bande de mitrailleuse vide, dernier dessin.



G?t fig, parpill sur le sable, son mouvement achev

Entre les personnes qui cherchent la mort il y en a peu qui la trouvent lorsquelle leur serait utile.



Entre les personnes qui cherchent la mort il y en a peu qui la trouvent lorsquelle leur serait utile.



Entre les personnes qui cherchent la mort il y en a peu qui la trouvent lorsquelle leur serait utile.




Prompt for SUNO AI


Art rock, progressiv rock, ritmico, Neoclassical, Orchestral, Funeral March, French Language, Historical Epic, Tragic, Apocalyptic, A monumental and tragic piece, The music is built on slow, solemn funeral marches, deep orchestral drones, dissonant string and brass swells, and sparse, ominous percussion, The male vocals declaiming the French text with the gravitas of a fallen emperor or a tragic historian, The provided French spoken samples (Napoleonic quotes) must be used as clear, cold, archival interludes, The mood is one of imperial downfall, historical fatality, and profound, majestic sorrow, The production should feel vast, echoic, and timeless.




Passenger of the Bellerophon


The former passenger of the Bellerophon,

In a worn-out tobacco-coloured coat he had on,

And a powder-dusted tricorn hat, pushed down on his head,

Sits on an empty gasoline drum, as if its a throne instead.

Hes gazing at the dunes of the south coasts hot span,

Where his final weekend as a living man began.



Passenger of the Bellerophon faces his final weekend.

On ne trouve pas de gens intrpides dans ceux qui ont ? perdre.



The pitching deck, the seasick, cursed disease,

The mornings wet and swallowing fog, the damn sandbank that sees

The company of sworn allies and the everlasting foe.

The yellow shell-casings on the white sand, in a row,

Like melted candles on the vast and endless Russian snow.



Yellow shell-casings like candles on the endless snow.

Ninterrompez jamais un ennemi qui est en train de commettre une erreur.



Junkers are spilling from the region they call Hell.

A photograph of Colonel Aureliano, people tell,

Behind the sliding, spider-web cracks of the Renaults shot-out glass,

With the motionless, straw-blonde chauffeur, waiting for the pass.

A truck, slumped on its broken axles, meant to haul the dead

From the immense shoreline to one vast, communal bed.

A bed the dwellers of Macondos bamboo shacks never dreamed,

Who weave their fates with pearly threads of rain, so it seemed,




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