Return


In the steppe runs own way
In the blue distance, gave lovely.
Mother awaits me at the threshold
In a quiet sadness, female sadness.

Looks, sighs, remembering again,
As sheets on birches rustling,
As I went into the camp overcoat
Cloudy morning in the misty distance.

And, perhaps, you, mum, build,
In a simple village icons,
And lips prayers,
And think prostrations.


Honey, do not cry for me
In his lonely silence,
Do not look at the road with longing -
I, as before, with you.

You did not expect, and Dorozhen'ka winds
For sweet home, home mother.
That fence and the crane at the well -
Everything here is familiar, familiar from childhood.

Carved shutters, doors, home ...
You're running on the porch to greet me.
Give your old hug the shoulders,
Hands wrinkled poglazhu yours.

Why are you crying? Look - it's me.
I do not ever have a war section.
Parent council your
And I love your son kept.

Well, like, cry, do not be ashamed,
Through tears enough about me.
These tears like rain in the spring,
Will run over me ....