By masters_redit.2

[Verse 1] The works of the Russian craftsmen are dearer Than any fine treasure to me, And something so special and ringing is clearer In those who imagined them—see. [Chorus] You look, and the past starts to shimmer and waken, The glow of old campfires returns. The wood becomes song, and the silence is taken By masters whose spirit still burns. [Verse 2] You gaze at the grain, at the curve of the handle, The trace of a chisel so deep, And feel how the heart of the birch and the candle A promise of centuries keep. [Bridge] Not gold, not a jewel, but a prayer in the making, A whisper of hands in the dark— Each knot is a story, each cut is a waking, A flicker of life's hidden spark. [Chorus] You look, and the past starts to shimmer and waken, The glow of old campfires returns. The wood becomes song, and the silence is taken By masters whose spirit still burns. [Outro] The wood becomes song, And the silence is taken, By masters whose spirit still burns.