Макс Фривинг - Л. Прозоров - Евпатий Коловрат 1 - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

There is no one moaning or crying,

And not to father and mother about children

Or children, oh fathers and mothers,

Not to brother about brother, not to neighbors,

But all of them are lying dead together.

They were late.

This became obvious when the mountain above the Oka, on which their city stood, had not yet appeared from behind the forest. The winter sky above the forest was pristinely clear. Not a single stove smoke.

When the squad left the forest, the eyes of the gridneys - their own and the small Chernigov help - appeared the black, charred hump of the mountain.

Soon they saw the first dead. These were men, women, children, old men and women. Those who were driven before them onto the walls by enemies, those who had to drag wall-breaking, stone-piercing death to the walls of their city. Those who, having seen where and why they were brought, rushed with their bare hands at the strangers or simply calmly sank into the snow, kill them, they say. And we won't go any further.

There were many of them - dozens, maybe hundreds. At another time, the voivode would have bowed his head over their last courage. Now he rode past with an empty heart, for this courage was in vain. She did not save the cities above the Oka.

Then, at the walls themselves - at the place where the walls were - he saw the others as they rolled out. Those who still walked ahead of the enemy. What did they shout to their fellow countrymen and relatives on the walls before they died? They begged you not to shoot, shielding yourself with shaking hands? Or, on the contrary, did they ask for death?

At another time, the governor would have thought about human weakness. And now his heart was empty, because he himself turned out to be weak - too weak to protect his hometown or at least die with it...

We climbed between the ashes along a carriage littered with bodies. The horses' hooves were tapping "a-back, oh-behind."

Shout now that you ran with all your might. That he slept in the saddle while moving. That the snowdrifts scattered under their hooves, the river ice cracked behind them, and the gray flocks ran away in fear, forgetting the harshness of winter. What if it were even faster, the horses would not have been able to cope and the squad would have fallen asleep in the middle of the winter forests in eternal sleep...

Shout! What should I shout, to whom?

An old man clutching the halves of a chopped icon in his hands?

A naked child crucified in the middle of the yard with tears of pain, shame and mortal fear frozen into muddy pieces of ice on her gray cheeks?

The blacksmith, whose family was overtaken in the middle of the street leading to the gate of the child, who saw in the last moments: dying in vain, no one left, not his wife, not his daughters, not his youngest, dormant in a scarlet puddle under the meadow?

To whom, voivode? Maybe this dog, lying at the gate next to his owner, studded with arrows, but managed - his muzzle covered in blood - to reach someone's throat?

The dog managed - not to protect, but to die with honor. But you, governor, failed. That's the whole story. That's the whole trial...