Мельница - Трава разлуки
текст песни

My gold is brittle in the wind,
My silver is like a drop of dew to a fire ...
Blood from the face shakes a thin hand:
Tomorrow will not come -
Only the grass of separation is high.

My gold is coat and dry grass,
My silver was exchanged for steel and pain;
The strings do not ring - the wind beats in heaven ...
Do not disturb me -
Just close my eyes with your palm.

They cut off the armor - to make it easier for me:
Small sin - in the battle is not up to pity;
From flowers and stars, you can’t weave a wreath already -
On the road of tears
Only the grass of separation is high.

Heather on the plain, yes mountains - like bitter ice,
Do not find a valley where the meeting is growing ...
How to find strength to me to return through centuries,
So you forgive you? ..
And the grass is high.

The rustle of brittle ice floes, whether the words rustle with foliage,
Is the Homeless Soul cries in the Valley -
Black poppies Sea, but there is no my flower:
Only wormwood and bitterness
Yes, the grass of separation is high ...

My gold is brittle in the wind,
My silver is like a drop of dew to a fire ...
Blood from the face shakes a thin hand:
Tomorrow will not come -
Only grass ...