Текст: Meanwhile. Old Shells.

A smile stolen from nature taken from the pale sun relights the colours of the hills. Untidy hair's child under oak roof move like a branchy tree searching for an hidden treasure thru the dry leaves of the woods of pleasure, the woods of the hills... thru the dry leaves in the woods echoes of gunshots flying birds he clentched the fist with a few shells and started to run away from there...