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| When silence becomes sky, flight no longer belongs to the bird. |
There comes a moment when even loss exhausts itself.
When the weeping stops not because consolation arrived, but because the one who wept has thinned into silence.
What remains then is strange — weightless, lucid, and terrifying in its vastness.
That is where this song begins.
This song is not an anthem of rebellion.
It is the confession of someone who has seen through the last veil — the veil of goodness, love, and meaning.
It sings not of escape from pain, but of freedom from opposites: from sin and virtue, from love and hate, from the need to be anyone at all.
This freedom is not earned.
It arrives when Māyā Herself withdraws her perfume, when Her tender deceit — the belief that life revolves around what we desire and lose — fades into clarity.
What once felt like the center of existence now seems like a dream told by the rain.
The song moves through three skies:
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the first, heavy with rain — when the self begins to dissolve;
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the second, filled with wind — when love’s illusion bows and departs;
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the third, burning with fire — when awareness stands alone, radiant and unbound.
Through them all, one refrain resounds like a mantra of awakening:“I am free.”
Free not as a victor, but as one who has become air itself —
transparent, formless, awake.
Verse 1
Transliteration
Nado mnoyu tishina,
Nebo polnoye dozhdya.
Dozhd’ prokhodit skvoz’ menya,
No boli bol’she net.
Pod kholodnyy shopyot zvezd
My sozhgli posledniy most,
I vsyo v bezdnu sorvalos’.
Svobodnym stanu ya
Ot zla i ot dobra.
Moya dusha byla na lezvii nozha.English Translation
Above me, silence.
A sky heavy with rain.
The rain passes through me,
And pain is gone.
Beneath the cold whisper of stars
We burned the final bridge,
And everything fell into the abyss.
I will become free —
From evil and from good.
My soul once balanced
Upon the edge of a knife.
“Above me, silence. A sky heavy with rain.”
This silence is not peace — it is the moment after peace has died.
A vast, sentient stillness, too alive to be called calm.
The rain moves through everything like memory dissolving form.
No resistance, no shelter — only the transparency that remains when even surrender has burned.
“The rain passes through me, and pain is gone.”
Gone not because healing came, but because the one who could feel pain has been erased.
This is the heart of the Dhumāvatī current: not consolation, but deletion.
Freedom is not a gift — it is the absence of anyone left to receive it.
She does not soothe the wound; She consumes the one who bleeds.
“Under the cold whisper of stars we burned the final bridge.”
The stars are Her witnesses — cold, ancient, impersonal.
To burn the final bridge is to accept that there is no way back to goodness, to meaning, to prayer.
This is the initiation where even light is stripped of sanctity.
Nothing is holy, and for the first time, everything is.
“And everything fell into the abyss. I will become free — from evil and from good.”
This is the paradox — freedom from good.
It is the return of what even sattva cannot contain: the Goddess reclaiming Her own radiance from the masks of virtue.
She devours piety last of all.
What remains is not darkness, but clarity so fierce it blinds —
the recognition that good and evil are only the pulse of the same cosmic hunger.
“My soul once balanced upon the edge of a knife.”
Yes. That edge is Her tongue — the blade that separates illusion from the real, the last taste of distinction before everything melts into Her.
The knife no longer threatens; it gleams in the heart like an understanding:
that to be free is to stand where nothing opposes you —
because there is nothing left that is not you.
This verse is the threshold where Dhumāvatī’s current turns from dissolution to vastness.
Freedom here is not earned, nor blessed — it is the inevitable stillness after the Goddess has swallowed even the light that named Her holy.
Verse 2
Transliteration
Ya by mog s toboyu byt’,
Ya by mog pro vsyo zabyt’,
Ya by mog tebya lyubit’ —
No eto lish’ igra.
V shume vetra za spinoy
Ya zabudu golos tvoy
I o toy lyubvi zemnoy,
Chto nas szhigala v prakh.
I ya skhodil s uma —
V moey dushe net bol’she mesta dlya tebya.English Translation
I could have been with you,
I could have forgotten everything,
I could have loved you —
But it was only a game.
In the noise of the wind behind my back
I will forget your voice,
And that earthly love
That burned us into dust.
I was losing my mind —
There is no place for you
In my soul anymore.
“I could have been with you,
I could have forgotten everything,
I could have loved you —
But it was only a game.”
He speaks here to Māyā, not to a person.
The “game” is līlā, the divine play that appears as romance, attachment, fever.
At first it feels like destiny, but once her spell dissolves, he sees the pattern:
She was never cruel — only playful.
She let him taste intensity so he would learn its hollowness.
“In the noise of the wind behind my back
I will forget your voice.”
The wind is her departing breath, the fading mantra of the world.
Forgetting her voice is the final purification, not betrayal.
It means the senses no longer chase echoes; awareness no longer worships its own projections.
Even the tenderness of illusion is allowed to go.
“And that earthly love
That burned us into dust.”
This line is her epitaph.
Earthly love — radiant, consuming, ecstatic — was Māyā’s most exquisite snare.
She burned him beautifully, until the ashes revealed that the fire itself was divine.
To recognize her as fire, not beloved, is the awakening she intended all along.
“I was losing my mind —There is no place for you in my soul anymore.”
Madness was part of initiation.
She had to drive him past reason so he could glimpse what lies beyond sanity and story.
Now the soul is empty not from rejection but from ripeness —
a vessel cleaned of form so that the formless may reside.
Her task is done. She bows and vanishes into the wind.
This verse is a farewell lit with reverence.
It speaks not of broken hearts, but of completion —
the moment when the seeker thanks Māyā for her lessons in desire and releases her with love.
What remains is not bitterness, but a quiet gratitude toward the Power that deceived only to awaken.
The game was holy.
The forgetting — a blessing.
And the emptiness — Her final gift.
Chorus — The Mantra of Freedom
Transliteration
Ya svoboden, slovno ptitsa v nebesakh,
Ya svoboden — ya zabyl, chto znachit strakh.
Ya svoboden s dikim vetrom naravne,
Ya svoboden — n’yavu, a ne vo sne.English Translation
I am free, like a bird in the heavens.
I am free — I have forgotten what fear means.
I am free, equal to the wild wind.
I am free — awake, not in a dream.
“I am free, like a bird in the heavens.”
This is not the bird of rebellion, but of completion.
It is the soul released from the gravity of karma, winged not by hope but by emptiness made weightless.
The bird does not flee the world — it floats within it, untouched.
The sky here is Śūnya itself — the vast body of Dhumāvatī, now radiant rather than devouring.
To fly in that sky is to exist without resistance, to move as awareness moves.
“I am free — I have forgotten what fear means.”
Fear survives as long as there is something to lose.
But when even goodness, even love, even sanctity have been surrendered, what remains that could be taken?
This is not courage; it is the extinction of duality itself.
When the mind dissolves in Her void, the word “danger” becomes meaningless —
because the one who trembled has disappeared into Her.
“I am free, equal to the wild wind.”
The wind is Her breath — restless, directionless, sacred.
To be “equal to the wild wind” means to move without agenda, to act without the burden of identity.
Freedom is not stillness; it is motion unbound.
The same wind that once howled as chaos is now recognized as the rhythm of Being.
“I am free — awake, not in a dream.”
This final line closes the circle.
All previous life was dream — the fever of love, the theatre of virtue, the prison of becoming.
Now, awakening is not to something new, but to what always was.
To be “awake, not in a dream” is to live in the world without being of it —
to see Māyā’s play continue, yet never again mistake it for truth.
The chorus is the mantra of release —
not shouted in triumph, but spoken as a clear, unburdened fact.
Each repetition dissolves another layer of identity, until only sky remains.
This is Dhumāvatī’s final teaching:
that freedom does not mean victory over bondage,
but the collapse of the very axis that made bondage possible.
“I am free” — not because I escaped the dream, but because I see that there was never a dreamer.
Verse 3
Transliteration
Nado mnoyu tishina,
Nebo polnoye ognya.
Svet prokhodit skvoz’ menya —
I ya svoboden vnov’.
Ya svoboden ot lyubvi,
Ot vrazhdy i ot molvy,
Ot predskazannoy sud’by
I ot zemnykh okov,
Ot zla i ot dobra —
V moey dushe net bol’she mesta dlya tebya.English Translation
Above me, silence again,
A sky full of fire.
Light passes through me —
And I am free once more.
I am free from love,
From enmity and from rumor,
From the fate foretold
And from the chains of earth,
From evil and from good —
There is no room for you
In my soul anymore.
“Above me, silence again, a sky full of fire.”
The same silence returns, but transformed.
What was once the chill of rain has become the heat of illumination.
The fire no longer burns — it radiates.
This is Dhumāvatī transmuted into Mahāśūnya, the luminous void.
The seeker has passed through her devouring and now stands where emptiness itself glows.
“Light passes through me — and I am free once more.”
At first, rain passed through him; now, light does.
Matter has turned to transparency, and transparency into conscious light.
Freedom here is not escape, but permeability —
nothing can cling, not even revelation.
“I am free from love, from enmity and from rumor.”
Love and hate are finally seen as two movements of the same wave.
When one ends, the other has no foothold.
Even the “rumor” — the echo of reputation, the world’s opinion — has lost its power.
This is freedom from narrative, the silence that follows when no story is left to defend.
“From the fate foretold and from the chains of earth.”
Destiny itself dissolves.
The cords of karma, once woven by desire and fear, have turned to smoke.
Earthly chains break not through struggle but through loss of interest —
gravity itself forgets to pull.
“From evil and from good — there is no room for you in my soul anymore.”
The refrain returns like a mantra of extinction.
To be free from good is the final paradox: the dissolution of the sattvic mask.
Even virtue is released — not denied, but transcended.
Here Dhumāvatī completes her work:
She reclaims the seeker from the last refuge of holiness,
drawing him into the innocence that exists before judgment ever arose.
This is the flowering of the void.
The world remains — the stars, the wind, the flame — yet nothing binds.
Freedom here is not rebellion but stillness that has forgotten fear and hope alike.
The voice is no longer mourning or remembering; it simply is.
Nothing to keep, nothing to lose. The sky full of fire, and silence everywhere.
The Breath of the Sky
At the end, the words dissolve into repetition —
“I am free… .I am free”
Two echoes, like wings beating once and disappearing into the clouds.
Not emphasis, not triumph — simply confirmation.
As if the voice itself had become breath,
and the breath had no one left to claim it.
This is how the song ends: not with resolution, but with evaporation.
The rain of grief, the wind of forgetting, the fire of release —
all return to the same sky from which they came.
The singer does not ascend; he expands,
filling the space that once surrounded him.
The double “I am free” is the vanishing point —
the moment when even the declaration erases its speaker.
Freedom no longer belongs to anyone;
it is the nature of what remains when Māyā’s game is seen through.
Silence resumes, but it is no longer the silence of loss.
It is the still breathing of the infinite —
the quiet pulse of a soul that has become indistinguishable from sky.
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