My wind went wild in the steppe,
But I can't judge him,
Like him I drank my longing
For you, Golden Russia.
I'm dragging on my hump,
Its hard, but true cross,
I finished my Gulba
At strange unfamiliar places.
I'm not going to fall into a ravine,
And I will not execute love,
Became my neighbor - distant enemy,
And I saddled the horse again.
From winter to spring-cast,
Look at the sky and you'll understand,
This is the world's living mouthful,
The rest is all smoke and lies.
On the bend, on the nerves of the day,
In the fuss, in the skirmish of words,
I'm coming, jingling like a bell
At the fires of the old Calvary.
I was not overcome by melancholy,
And not hunched down at all sadness,
There is a silver river,
A flood of tender feelings.
I was told to be patient....
That means I'll be back,
Where my wind walked in the steppe,
And lazorik looks at Russia.