My fire hasn't gone out, it's inside. I go into the darkness with him, full of him. There, ahead, where the menacing view is. Thin, diseased willow crowns stretch into the sky. My path is long, into that steppe of evil and gloomy traveler. My rap is a gift, she was shrouded in the best darkness. I sat down and waited for the fist to come over my head. A sign for all of us. I am, unwillingly, a disgruntled son of a bitch. On the battlefield, I miss hooks in the shield. It’s quite painful, whoever was scared of you. But I push like a bull, and they hit like Fairies. Across the fields, the boots, past the nifs and mines. We are them, the shooting gallery is one. The seed has come together, the world is flying into a hole. I take a shield and a sword, I want to live and be. The caravan leaves into the darkness into the distance, there are black and black willows, horror, darkness. There are rivers of dead fish, dead birds, fallen nationalities. Come and find out, the paw of discord is like ivy, like an octopus. If I turn around, they won’t understand me. Dear, don’t worry, don’t call, don’t forget. Yeah, there in the distance I’ll disappear into the smoke. The caravan leaves to the south, goes into the darkness. Everyone took their dream and let it bask in hell. But my pain is a forgotten dream. A cartridge has been sent into the chamber. Whoever encroached on my house will be buried in it. The caravan leaves for the south, where they give covers from trees as a gift. Where, the demons of war are all singing there. Hot muzzles in a tank. To twist and beat is my instinct, If the world is like a ring, if it is in blood. Behind my back is my house, where my angel sleeps, Opened his mouth on them, bitch? No question, catch it! The caravan leaves for the south, early in the morning. I hold love in my hands, I am silent. I just can't breathe. I touch the strands with a burning hand. It's just best for her to stroke. But they saw demons here across the river. And again they gather the men. The caravan leaves for the south, packed to the point of unloading. Leaden tears poison the pulse, but the taste is completely different. I'm getting ready to go, like everyone else. I’ve been with him for five minutes, then I sat down. I hold it in my hands and wait for the dawn. Remnants of the past come to me. In the green meadows in the grass I kissed my knees and burned. Free, like the wind from these steppes. Oh, if only I knew about the war bitch. That the native fields will smoke. You will scream, look, the fields are burning. Come out, I swear to you - Who stepped here with a sword. He did it in vain. The caravan leaves to the south, the horizon in the distance is stained with blood. The smell of sweat, gunpowder, swill, the smell of burnt hemp. Dirty paws are crawling into my house. Unceremonious, vile Time to show your fangs. Who is the dad, the queen, and the don? The covered hemisphere blew everyone away. Small success. But we are an unnecessary burden 200. Next is the path to the forest. The demons are somewhere out there, across the river. The shadows catch the eye under the visor. Has the caravan come to life? Bow to the native land. Who am I without these fields? Well, who am I without these fields, tell me. Moans, those that are on fire, and I can only burn with them. Who without this hair? Who am I without these hands, dear to me? For their life, ready to die - My Motherland, dear, good land. My Motherland, you are the only one I have. Motherland, be patient! Motherland. My Motherland, you are the only one I have...

Friends! Please note: in order to correctly correct the lyrics of the song, you need to highlight at least two words

My fire hasn't gone out, it's inside.
I go into the darkness with him, full of him.
There, ahead, where the menacing view is.
Thin, diseased willow crowns stretch into the sky.

My path is long, into that steppe of evil; I am a gloomy traveler.
My rap is a gift, it was wrapped better in darkness.
I sat down and waited for the fist to come over my head.
A sign for all of us.

I am an unwillingly disgruntled son of a bitch.
On the battlefield I miss hooks into cabbage soup.
It's pretty painful, someone would be scared,
But I move like a bull; and they hit like fairies.

Through the fields, in boots, past fields and mines.
We are not them, there is only one shooting gallery.
Off the axis, the world is flying into a hole.
I take a shield and a sword, I want to live and be.

The caravan leaves into the darkness, into the distance.
There are black and black willows - creepy, gloomy.
There are rivers of dead fish, dead birds, dead us.
But I'll be back, you know.

The paw of discord is like ivy, like an octopus;
If I turn around, they won’t understand me.
Dear, don’t worry, don’t call, don’t forget,
When, there in the distance I will dissolve into smoke.

The caravan leaves to the south and goes into the darkness.
Everyone took their dream and let it bask in hell.
New pain - a forgotten dream. The cartridge has been chambered.
Whoever encroached on my house will be buried in it.

The caravan leaves for the south, there
Where they give covers from trees as gifts.
Where the demons of war sing to us all
With hot muzzles to the beat, e.

Hitting and hitting is my instinct;
If the world is like a ring, if it is covered in blood.
Behind my back is my house, my angel sleeps there,
Opened your mouth on them, bitch? No question, catch it!

The caravan leaves for the south, early in the morning.
I hold love in my hands, I am silent. I just can't breathe.
I touch the strands with a burning hand. It's best to simply iron them.
But they saw demons, here - across the river. And again they gather the men.

The caravan leaves for the south, packed to the point of unloading.
Lead tears poison the pulse, tears taste completely different.
I'm getting ready to go, like everyone else. I was here with her for five minutes when I sat down.
I hold it in my hands and wait for the dawn. Remnants of the past come to me.

In the green meadows of grass, I kissed my knees, I was burning.
Free, like the wind from these steppes. Oh, if only I knew about the war bitch.
That the native fields will smoke. You will shout: “Look, the fields are burning!”
But I swear to you, whoever stepped here with a sword, my dear, did it in vain!

The caravan leaves to the south, the horizon in the distance is stained with blood.
The smell of sweat, there is gunpowder, swill, the smell of burnt hemp.
A dirty paw is creeping into my house. Unceremonious, vile *andon.
Time to show your fangs. Who is the father, who is the queen and who is the don.

The covered parapet blew everyone away - a small success.
But we are an unnecessary burden 200. Next is the path to the forest.
The demons are somewhere out there, across the river. The shadow catches the eye under the visor.
Has the caravan come to life? Bow to the native land.

Who am I without these fields? Well, who am I without these fields, tell me.
Those who are on fire are moaning and I can only burn with them.
Who without this hair? Who am I without these hands, dear to me?
For their lives, ready to die!

My Motherland is my dear, kind land.
My Motherland - you are the only one I have.
Motherland - be patient, poor land.
My Motherland - I have only you...

Rem Digga - To the South.
Director of photography: Andrey Kovalev (Qval Film)
March, 2015.

Rem Digga, aka Roman Voronin, is a well-known representative of the underground of Russian hip-hop, famous for his flexible and strong double rhymes, a rather predatory, wild style in the best traditions of old school and underground, high emotional intensity running through the entire composition, and, of course well, the serious semantic load of the songs.

In his relatively recent work, released in 2015, called “To the South”, I did not hear the dense double-rhyme usual for Digger; on the contrary, basically, this song contains a rather approximate accent rhyme (“...Beating and beating is my instinct; If the world is like a ring, if it is in blood. Behind my back is my house, there my angel sleeps, Opened his mouth on them, bitch? No question, catch it!..”).

But the interest that arose in me in this composition is in no way connected with rhyme, the laws of text construction and other technical issues. Roma here raises one of the most popular, eternal problems of human society, speaking about military operations, about the disasters associated with them, about love for one’s land. And it would seem that no matter how many writers, poets and musicians of all times and peoples have already covered this topic from head to toe, Digga still manages to capture the listener’s attention with his own vision and feelings of war.

What war is the song “To the South” about?

While writing “To the South,” Roman recalled his army years, and also, of course, the events in neighboring Ukraine could not help but echo in this text: just at this time in the Donbass (that is, literally, a stone’s throw from the border Gukovo - small homeland of the rapper) hostilities flared up. Thus, the atmosphere of the track at the time of its appearance could not be more relevant, and also carries the characteristic shades of our south. You can feel the hot southern blood, the irresistible and fatal human patriotism in her.

For whom does the eternal flame burn?

So let's take a look inside the song. The first image that appears here is the inner fire of the soldier - that is, the hero himself, and with the help of this symbol, new images subsequently arise that fill the stage landscape:

... My fire has not gone out, it is inside. With him I go into the darkness, full of him, There, forward, there is a menacing view - Thin, diseased crowns of willows stretch into the sky...

So, internal fire is light, it is creative energy, thanks to which there is still life on our planet. This fire, heroic, forcing a person to selflessly fight for what is dear to him, is contrasted with the scene itself - the terrible external landscape, where there is darkness, crippled nature. And our character enters this scene, “into that steppe of evil”... and then the battle begins... But, strangely enough, we won’t see any tanks or machine guns here - here a fist fight begins!

... I'm waiting for a fist over my head, it's a sign to all of us... Involuntarily, I am a dissatisfied son of a bitch, On the battlefield I miss hooks in the cabbage soup...

What's important to Diggy is that the fight is hand-to-hand. In fact, all hip-hop is a fist fight, each battle is a one-on-one shooter, that is, opponents look at each other not through the sights of a machine gun, not from a tank, but directly, eye to eye. A warrior shows his character:

... It’s quite painful, someone would be scared, but I’m strong as a bull, they hit like fairies...

The warrior is glorified as the bearer of an all-conquering inner light, and everything around, as not for the first time in Digger’s work, is saturated with darkness and goes crazy:

... I got off the axis, the world is flying into a hole - I take a shield and a sword, I want to live and be!..

A world where the central sacred figure is She, the soldier’s beloved girl, and She is shown as the most striking image among all other figures associated with the concept of the Motherland - “green meadows”, “free wind from these steppes”, the fields of the southern fields close to the poet’s heart. The enemy wants to capture, enslave, and destroy all this - the “paw of discord,” the same “dirty paw” of demons that “climbs into my house,” unceremonious and vile.

...But I swear to you - whoever stepped here with a sword, dear, he did it in vain...

Where does the caravan go?

The main phrase sweeps through the song as a leitmotif, showing the dynamics of the entire action in the work: “...The caravan leaves for the south...”. In fact, all the “fist fights” and massacres take place only in the soldier’s thoughts, while he himself is riding in this very caravan... The enemy army is always “somewhere there” over the horizon, across the river. The expectation of meeting the enemy is the main conflict of reality in a musical work.

The heroic “caravan” rushing towards the enemy is, in fact, “unnecessary cargo 200”, and the very atmosphere of the approaching battle is disgusting - because the very essence of war is disgusting. At this point we need to make a reservation. A certain duality is created in the position of the author himself, who, while praising the military glory and valor of the struggle for freedom, also calls his caravan “unnecessary cargo 200.” How is this contradiction justified? In my opinion, Digga, by noting with the word “unnecessary” the purely factual uselessness of the corpses of dead soldiers, betrays the spiritual significance of the essence of the people’s feat. Perhaps the mention also serves another purpose: to show a view from above on the heroism of ordinary children. Those who sent them here see only a cargo of 200, and not living people going to their death to protect their homeland. Those who sat through the meeting are well aware of the inevitable end of the war, but are in no hurry to share it with their people. They simply throw it on the sacrificial altar, dismissively seeing in this habitual act only the hassle of transportation.

The smell of sweat, gunpowder, swill, the smell of burnt hemp...

But the atmosphere is not tragic - rather, on the contrary - the hero revels in his love for the fatherland, because this is his only way not to go crazy when faced with death, because only now he understands how much these fields mean to him:

... Who am I without these fields? Well, who am I without these fields, tell me. Those who are on fire groan and I can only burn with them. Who without this hair? Who am I without these hands, dear to me? For their lives, ready to die! My Motherland is my dear, kind land<…>I have you alone.<…>be patient, poor land...

And the words here are meaningless - here it is, that very fire of a warrior, a soldier, a source of light and a stronghold of the perfection of the beauty of the spirit, in contrast fitting into the external, painfully thin palette of darkness, flame and smoke, evil... And, what is most interesting, this seemingly , an insignificant clot of light in the midst of complete darkness overcomes it. Because it is impossible to do otherwise in life. Because this is how we won a number of high-profile victories. The spirit of a righteous warrior accomplishes great feats.

Interesting? Save it on your wall!

First Verse:
My fire hasn't gone out, it's inside.
I go into the darkness with him, full of him.
Standing there ahead, where the menacing view is.
Thin, diseased willow crowns stretch into the sky.
My path is long, to that steppe of evil, I am a gloomy traveler.
My rap is a gift, and it is shrouded in the best darkness.
I sat down and waited for the fist to come over my head.
A sign for all of us.
I am, unwillingly, a disgruntled son of a bitch.
On the battlefield, I miss hooks in the cabbage soup.
It hurts quite a lot, who was scared of you?
But I push like a bull, and they hit like fairies.

Through the fields in boots, past fields and mines.
We are them, the shooting gallery is one.
Off the axis into a hole, the world flies...
I take a shield and a sword, I want to live and be.
The caravan leaves into the darkness,
There are black willows, creepy, darkness.
There are rivers of dead fish, dead birds, fallen nationalities.
But I'll be back, you know
The paw of discord is like ivy, like an octopus.
If I turn around, they won’t understand me.
Dear, don’t worry, don’t call, don’t forget.
When there in the distance I will disappear into the smoke.

The caravan goes south, goes into the darkness,
Everyone took their dream and let it bask in hell.
New pain - a forgotten dream,
The cartridge has been chambered.
Whoever encroached on my house will be buried.

The caravan leaves for the south, there
Where they give covers from trees as gifts.
Where, the demons of war sing to us all.
With red-hot muzzles to the beat, e.

Hitting and hitting is my instinct,
If the world is like a ring, if it is covered in blood.
Behind my back is my house, my angel sleeps there,
Opened your mouth on them, bitch? No question, catch it!

The caravan leaves for the south, early in the morning.
I hold love in my hands, I am silent.
I just can't breathe.
I touch the strands with a burning hand.
It's best to simply iron them.
But demons were seen here across the river.
And again they gather the men.

The caravan leaves for the south,
Unloaded to the utmost.
Lead tears poison the pulse.
Tears taste completely different.

I'm getting ready to go, like everyone else.
I sat down with her for five minutes.
I warm it, hold it in my hands, and wait for the dawn.
Remnants of the past come to me.
In the green meadows in the grass.
I kissed my knees, I was burning.
Free, like the wind from these steppes.
Oh, if only I knew about the bitch of war.
That the native fields will smoke.
You will scream, look, the fields are burning.
But I swear to you
who stepped with a sword, dear, here.
He did it in vain.

The caravan leaves for the south,
The horizon in the distance is stained with blood.
The smell of sweat, gunpowder, swill,
The smell of burnt cannabis.
A dirty paw is creeping into my house.
An unceremonious vile bastard.
Time to show your fangs.
Who is the pope-queen here, who is the don.

The covered parapet blew everyone away.
Small success.
But we are an unnecessary burden for two hundred.
Next is the path to the forest.
The demons are somewhere out there, across the river.
The shadow catches the eye under the visor.
Has the caravan come to life? Bow to the native land.
Who am I without these fields?
Well, who am I without these fields, tell me.
Those who are on fire groan and I can only burn with them.
Who without this hair?
Who am I without these dear hands?
For their lives, ready to die.
My Motherland, dear, good land.
My Motherland, you are the only one I have.
Motherland, be patient! Poor land.
My Motherland, you are the only one I have...