It just whizzed and fell down on a desk,
Ate a little and drop asleep on an ash
Of murdered songs, I won't lose nothing in there.
World is so tight. Brother, let me you to hug.
Anyplace - demons. Brother, press the pedal now.
Hour to dying, I don't regret this burnt-out man.
But in the pure field are little angels and knapweeds.
We are on freedom, and no burning, no anguish.
And on heaven will greet us Sashka and Ilya,
We'll take a bread, and without hundred grams* nohow.
Why should we crying? Here is no shame, why should we writhe?
Eden is not slush, snowstorm is our paradise.
We will share about sunset and sunrise,
Hills full of soot and the bitter marmalade,
That we have eaten, when have ended our war,
And how we fell into the Motherland's hands.