Maslenitsa is a traditional Slavic spring festival.

It marks the farewell to winter and the return of the sun.

People make pancakes, light fires, and celebrate renewal.

It’s about warmth, change, and starting fresh.

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Yeah!

One, two — move!

Winter still shoves back, hissing, “I’m here forever,”

But it lies like always — its cold is an empty terror.

We know the ice is cracking, even if it tries to grin,

Spring is already near — she just needs time to win.

Glass in fractures, the night like a blade in the side,

Winter roars and plays “I’m iron, you’re dust — you hide.”

But the sun will rise — and all her armor

Melts away quietly, bro — that’s just how earth operates.

Don’t fear the change — it’s no sentence, no doom,

Spring comes every time, though winter fights for the room.

We burn the effigy — let its shadow fade,

Then pancakes, butter, laughter — a brand-new day is made.

For change you don’t need saints or martyrs — no,

Most people simply sit and watch how the currents go.

5% begin — the ones who take the first step,

15% pick it up — give momentum, open the gap.

And the rest? Amorphous, shaking on their chairs,

Just watching quietly how someone else breaks the layers.

They have the right to sit, observe, and stay mute —

But not the right to meddle, acting smart, getting in the route.

Choose your role on this map, brother — don’t just wave your tongue:

Are you pushing change forward or hiding where it’s dark and young?

Don’t give advice to those rowing upstream in strain —

Those 5% don’t wait for the masses — they move on their own lane.

Don’t fear the change — it’s no downfall, no wreck,

Cold only pretends it’s strong — in truth, it clings to its fear, neck to neck.

Spring doesn’t break down doors — she simply walks through,

Warmth climbs up the rooftops, and everyone feels it too.

They still shout: “Wait, not yet, just hold!” —

But time sweeps them away like useless junk, brittle and old.

They try to freeze everything with darkness commands,

But spring is simple chemistry: sunlight + wind = ignition on the land.

Kids laughing, snow melting between their hands,

Winter is angry — but time doesn’t play revanchist plans.

We’ll burn its fears in the square like outdated trash,

And new things will rise beneath our feet, warm as fresh grass.

Change is movement, not terror, not court,

It’s when darkness gets tired of doing its dead-end work.

History keeps quiet, but it still settles the score:

Who built the light — and who just whined forevermore.

When the ground warms up, the truth rises to the top,

And the liars get loud — nowhere left for them to drop.

Some will sit. Some will run. Some will mumble, “I wasn’t involved.”

And the living breathe again, laughing — baking pancakes as problems dissolve.

The world’s not a show. It’s a choice, not a pose or a farce.

Warm hands, a quiet evening — and nothing feels harsh.

Every winter dies — that’s a law, not a phrase.

Choose your role and live — spring is already on its way.