Description
It smells like the road - not gasoline or the sea, but that special wind that tears off old labels and whispers, “Well, shall we go?” No one here knows exactly where, but everyone understands that there is no turning back. With every step, you hear the creaking of a ship's deck, the hum of a train station, the rustling of pages - and it's all about living not for the sake of destinations, but for the sake of the journeys themselves.
Inside, it's like an eternal wanderer: today a captain, tomorrow a passenger without a ticket, and the day after tomorrow a philosopher who has lost his pen but found himself. Here are Moby Dick, Corto Maltese, the prince, and the old man by the sea - all those who once tried to understand why people sail when the shore disappears anyway.
And maybe the point is not to reach the destination, but to keep walking. After all, when the fire of Prometheus burns inside and there is only ink and hope in your backpack, any “journey” sounds like “life.”
Lyrics and translation
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