ДЫК КЫН ДЫШ

It smells of road dust and the hot wind that knows everything about the silence of the steppes. The rhythm is like it's limping over stones - slowly, stubbornly, with that same inner stubbornness that is only characteristic of those who have long understood: no one will call you if you don't go yourself. Somewhere in the distance, voices echo, blurred by echo and time, as if old friends are talking across the wind. The music is swaying like the sun on the horizon line - neither a sunset nor a sunrise. Each note is like leaving a trail of dust and salt under your feet. And even if you can't make out the words, it's all clear: the road is calling, and the heart is responding with some ancient, achingly familiar melody.