Лидия Чинарёва - Сын полка
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Лидия Чинарёва - Сын полка - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Расплавлено поле, распахано
Воронками с талой водо й
Багровое небо распахнуто
Ветрами весны молодой
И, виновато, украдкою
Плывут по нему облака
И спит под сырой плащ-палаткою
Вчерашняя юность полка
Трепещет в воде отражение
Простреленных алых знамён
На стылой земле без движения
Усталый застыл батальон
Качалось безмолвие вербное
А он уходил на века
Ему и пятнадцати не было
Погибшему сыну полка
Ему и пятнадцати не было
Погибшему сыну полка
Лежит рядом томик Есенина
Местами зачитан до дыр
Над ним плачет небо весеннее
И с ним - полковой командир
Хрипит полусорванным голосом
Дрожит мелкой дробью рука
И гладит пшеничные волосы
Оборванной песне полка
Разорваны в клочья осколками
Бугристые вены земли
И, небо пронзив, как иголками
Латают его журавли
Покрытая белыми пятнами
Несёт ледоход свой река
Склонилась весна сорок пятого
Над болью щемящей полка
Склонилась весна сорок пятого
Над болью щемящей полка
Ах, сколько мальчишек без имени
Сожгла в своём пекле война,
Летят они стройными клиньями
Когда наступает весна
И льются дождями осенними
Не ведая смерти оков
Родившиеся не ко времени
Военные дети полков
Юность полка
Песня полка
The field is melted, plowed
Funnels with melt water
The crimson sky is wide open
Young by the winds of spring
And, guiltily, furtively
Clouds float across it
And sleeps under a damp raincoat
Yesterday's youth of the regiment
Reflection trembles in the water
Shot through scarlet banners
On the cold ground without movement
The tired and frozen battalion
The silence of the palm tree swayed
And he was gone for centuries
He wasn't even fifteen
To the deceased son of the regiment
He wasn't even fifteen
To the deceased son of the regiment
Yesenin's volume lies nearby
Read to the core in places
The spring sky is crying above him
And with him - the regimental commander
Wheezes in a half-broken voice
Hand trembles in small fractions
And strokes the wheat hair
To the tattered song of the regiment
Torn to shreds by shrapnel
Lumpy veins of the earth
And piercing the sky like needles
The cranes are patching him up
Covered with white spots
The river carries its ice drift
The spring of forty-five has fallen
Above the pain of the aching shelf
The spring of forty-five has fallen
Above the pain of the aching shelf
Oh, how many boys without a name
The war burned in its inferno,
They fly in slender wedges
When spring comes
And the autumn rains pour
Not knowing death's shackles
Born at the wrong time
Military children of the regiments
Youth of the regiment
Song of the regiment
Funnels with melt water
The crimson sky is wide open
Young by the winds of spring
And, guiltily, furtively
Clouds float across it
And sleeps under a damp raincoat
Yesterday's youth of the regiment
Reflection trembles in the water
Shot through scarlet banners
On the cold ground without movement
The tired and frozen battalion
The silence of the palm tree swayed
And he was gone for centuries
He wasn't even fifteen
To the deceased son of the regiment
He wasn't even fifteen
To the deceased son of the regiment
Yesenin's volume lies nearby
Read to the core in places
The spring sky is crying above him
And with him - the regimental commander
Wheezes in a half-broken voice
Hand trembles in small fractions
And strokes the wheat hair
To the tattered song of the regiment
Torn to shreds by shrapnel
Lumpy veins of the earth
And piercing the sky like needles
The cranes are patching him up
Covered with white spots
The river carries its ice drift
The spring of forty-five has fallen
Above the pain of the aching shelf
The spring of forty-five has fallen
Above the pain of the aching shelf
Oh, how many boys without a name
The war burned in its inferno,
They fly in slender wedges
When spring comes
And the autumn rains pour
Not knowing death's shackles
Born at the wrong time
Military children of the regiments
Youth of the regiment
Song of the regiment
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