Molotov

Cold blow of the wind
Ice cracking under the feet
In gears of the system I am
Like a grain between teeth
I have no strenght for
An anarchist impulse
For a loud scream
That will shatter the shackles
For a strike that will set me free
After which blood will shed
For throw of a molotov cocktail
A bottle filled with benzine
And someone needs to get hurt
For the fate, for that poor fate
I dream about a burning fridge
And air filled with stones