Journey

A road is going far upwards to the north, surmounting Russian bar – drive by that host. Through Petersburg the route – the choice is nought and if a passer-by says true – the course is Vyborg. And to a foreign part we’re coming late. The stars are shining hard to foresee our fate. The whole of Finland here is not yet finish. From Baltic beer – it’s quickly vanished. And stops in haste – oh, man, to have a rest, to aim at groin then of a tremendous cat. The roads are made of woods and to the left – the sea the mountains keep in hoods all those who there can be. The signs are everywhere we’re taken by the view, reindeers are pasturing there we are stitched by their look. The Swedish sun is watching what we are looking for and us who will be torturing ahead two thousand more.