ЗОЛОТО

Sometimes love for a city becomes something more than just a memory of home. It burns in your chest like molten gold and turns into armour. It's not about streets and courtyards, but about the land where you first fell, got up, fought and dreamed. And now you stand up for it, because you can't do otherwise.

Every line comes not from a studio, but from inside the chest. Rough, honest, chilling. Every word is salt on wounds, the smell of burning, and a strange peace that comes only after pain. Where once there was simply Saltovka, now there is a shrine, a mother, gold. And neither the glitter of jewellery nor wealth can replace this feeling: when the heart aches, but pride is still louder.