Сергей Ильёв - Афганский вальс - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Not to say, not to sing what was sampled and shot on film on a hundred -tor romance. Fate is not read in the bright gloss of the parquet, just as the waltz about Afghan is not dancing. You are here, I am already where the moon is crying with a star in the sky, like the coat of arms of Muslims, over gray gindukush, where the war is. The vine was blackened, and the bottles are poured with a poisonous-bloody wine of the troubles. And on the southern cross, our toasts are cast under the crystal ringing of mugs, glasses and flasks. I’m already here, and you are there, in the hot edge of the alien land, where longing in Russian meadows, on birch groves and love presses. We take with us in airplanes and lay in wagons on a raw bed along the gorges of deep smoke of the last column, Kandahar Head and Salang Metel. We are here and we are still in our thoughts, and endlessly wounds the red -hot Afghan of our memory and heart with lead. The ladder volleys will echo over the hills, idle tirades on the official lips. Our different fates are not measured for years and cannot be read in funeral sheets. I’m already here, and you are still there, in the eternal gave from the earthly fuss, where the crooked -legged tulip strokes his bud with sorrow at the stove. We are not, there is no where the sickle of the moon, the star is crying, where the earth is abbreviated as Afghan, over the gray gindukush, where the war is. He wounds the red -hot Afghan of our memory and heart.