They sing us the dead songs from the Vedas of the past.
The glory died out, it freeze like the moon in the firmament.
Again deepening us into the darkness, we not aspire victories.
Again we run away, without letting freedom return.
The will of the Gods is the faith in our future
Sleep in a vacuum, just like a dead.
A depressing power calls you
The fathers' memory is a grey mist.
Despite Them
Again we will be reborn from the ash!
We hear in the winds the ancient ancestors' voice!
Without stopping the force of Stribog's wind.
That restores the spirit of forgotten times.
The will of the Gods is the faith in our future
Sleep in a vacuum, just like a dead.
A depressing power calls you
The fathers' memory is a grey mist.