Arbat romance ancient stitching,
Passion for walks all alone;
From misted cup a happy drink,
And woman's absent minded "hello..."
Do not torment yourself in vain, she is kind to me,
Easy or sad, we lived a century, just about.
Believe me,this lady is from my rib,
And me she can not be without.
Love is such a thing, It's so easy to be swept off your feet,
To bury oneself , spin , get lost...
This distractive passion, we all familiar with it,
Therefore not worth it to repeat
Arbat romance ancient stitching,
Passion for walks all alone;
From misted cup a happy drink,
And woman's absent minded "hello..."
There were such days, I had good time when I were young,
The eyes were looking into the blue sky.
Has not been exchanged yet my first golden one,
The roses were on fire, with themselfs full of pride.
It wasn't funny yet for me my gait,
The shoe soles yet not worn off completely,
From every window, where the music is played,
So much luck was opening for me!
Do not torment yourself in vain, everything has its own clock.
Grow the grass, towards autumn it will be trampled on.
From the Arbat yard, we started our walk,
Apparently, towards it, everything will also return.
If only we would have luck always firsthand,
And no matter how it beat us, or appease,
One fine midday, do look around,
And all is here with you, as it were, in one piece.