Валерий Боков - Горнолыжная
текст песни

Your sores, wounds and fate blows
People are used to treating things in their own way.
The old way is closer to us
After all, mountains are orderlies
After all, mountains are the best doctors in the world

As soon as the birds gather south
There is an itch somewhere under the heart
Not to Crimea, not to Sochi, not to Cyprus, not to Nice
Trains are taking us to the mountains, to the snow

Not in Sochi, and especially not in Nice
Trains are taking us to the mountains, to the snow

And here it is, the slope, and all the misfortunes are forgotten
And now you start, trembling with joy
Here you are flying along the highway
And again the word HAPPINESS
A pair of skis takes turns

And how could the planid not toss you around?
What kind of pretzels would life bend into?
You're a skier - isn't that enough?
Stand on the edges, stay close to the flags

You're a skier - isn't that enough?
Get on the edges, hold on, hold on, hold on

For going too far!Bounce!Injection!The blood in my veins runs cold
A trace in virgin lands, like a line of poetry
And there is no trace of fear
Sliding in the middle
Two crazy avalanches - on the sides

There is an end to everything, everyone remembers that
But even if you leave the game
You'll leave a mark like a hero-lover
On the lush forms of a virgin mountain
Leave your mark like a hero-lover
On the lush forms of a virgin mountain

And those who are so held by the city will not dream of
Let them live at least on the thirtieth floor
Neither the blue of the sky nor the mountains
Neither altitude nor speed
No rainbow arc on the bend

And that means it’s clear to any fool
What can you add here, what can you object to here?
He lived in the world for a long time, but in vain
Who lived a century without knowing skiing?

He lived, perhaps, for a long time, but in vain
Who lived a century without knowing skiing?