Braciszku

Sometimes brotherhood is torn apart not by bullets, but by resentment. It used to be “life and death,” now it's “deleting photos.” Once they ate from the same plate, now each cooks his own bitter porridge. This isn't about rap - it's about fatigue, betrayal, and that very pride that prevents you from calling first.

It sounds like a conversation after a quarrel, where words no longer heal, but only confirm the diagnosis. Between the lines, there is coldness, but you can hear regret: after all, family is not those with whom you have fun, but those with whom you have had a hard time. And even if ambition has grown stronger than friendship, every beat still carries the memory of those days when “brother” meant more than just a word.