Molotok (Vozzvanie k arkhontu)

Air cooled down in the greedy soil,
Dusty bushes stretched to the moon,
Night falls in the gloomy forest,
Deciduous might whirling from the skies.
Dream of a spider runs into the thicket,
A thin thread among the grey clouds,
Berries of stars, holes of the snags,
The stem grew on and on — earth grew up.
Oh, the clang of your hammer in the night,
Give, give me the shine of your serpentine hands,
Give me the cold of your diamond eyes,
Give the turbid thunder of your heart.
Smoke floats over black pitch,
Straight — on the ground, askew — from the water,
Dream of a spider runs into the thicket,
A thin thread among the grey clouds.
A circle of fire — the lake awaits,
It’ll wash the web with it’s quiet currents,
The earth whispers, whispers and sleeps,
Watches the moon through spider’s sight.
Oh, the clang of your hammer in the night,
Give, give me the shine of your serpentine hands,
Give me the cold of your diamond eyes,
Give the turbid thunder of your heart.
Bless me to this battle,
Crush me with your heel,
Oh, the sound of your voice in me!
I reflect in the mirrors of fate…