FAME 2

This is not just a street confession, but almost a rhythmic autobiography of concrete, iron, and eternal sleep deprivation. The words seem to carry a taste of blood and cigarette smoke, with the bitter truth that prayers don't pay the bills, and trauma cannot be erased with wads of dirty bills. In each verse, there is the hum of stairwells, the cold of sidewalks, and the vivid memory of hunger that keeps your teeth from going numb.

Despite all the harshness, there is warmth inside: the mention of his mother as the most beautiful and strongest woman, like a little firefly that does not go out even in the darkest areas. And all this music is like a lantern swaying in the wind in the courtyard: bright, rough, but honest. Steps on the asphalt in time with the beat, and no gloss hides the real scars.