Song of the k / f "Ivan Nikulin Russian sailor"


On the branches of a wounded poplar
The warm breath of wind.
Above the desert raid of Sevastopol
Neither the crescent moon, no lights.

That night quarters scorched,
Breaking breasted the darkness of night,
It was a sailor, saying goodbye to the bastions,
With a dead ship's side.

It was a sailor on the bays dull,
Where is the soul of all the pebbles are lovely.
At the cemetery, the graves of the old
The guards raised their trunks.

He stood. striped vest
Caked with thick patches.
He said; "I'm rich make war,
With your black pack fought his heart's content. "

On the branches of a wounded poplar
The warm breath of wind.
Above the desert raid of Sevastopol
Neither the crescent moon, no lights. 1943