43 lines
1.0 KiB
Plaintext
43 lines
1.0 KiB
Plaintext
Return
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In the steppe runs own way
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In the blue distance, gave lovely.
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Mother awaits me at the threshold
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In a quiet sadness, female sadness.
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Looks, sighs, remembering again,
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As sheets on birches rustling,
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As I went into the camp overcoat
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Cloudy morning in the misty distance.
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And, perhaps, you, mum, build,
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In a simple village icons,
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And lips prayers,
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And think prostrations.
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Honey, do not cry for me
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In his lonely silence,
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Do not look at the road with longing -
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I, as before, with you.
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You did not expect, and Dorozhen'ka winds
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For sweet home, home mother.
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That fence and the crane at the well -
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Everything here is familiar, familiar from childhood.
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Carved shutters, doors, home ...
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You're running on the porch to greet me.
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Give your old hug the shoulders,
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Hands wrinkled poglazhu yours.
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Why are you crying? Look - it's me.
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I do not ever have a war section.
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Parent council your
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And I love your son kept.
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Well, like, cry, do not be ashamed,
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Through tears enough about me.
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These tears like rain in the spring,
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Will run over me .... |