There are no more words... I'm drying up with autumn letters.
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Red dawn drowned under the fallen leaves.
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I sing again, I have no strength to resist, and I don’t want to.
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Someone said that autumn loneliness syndrome.
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Chorus:
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We will sing, we will cry - this is the Russian style.
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How else can you take your soul away?
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We will sing, we will cry - this is the Russian style.
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How else can you take your soul away?
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It's autumn... It's autumn...
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And the rusty city is all around, even where it is painted green.
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Splashing with rain, the sky will pour out with salty moisture.
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And a red cat, hopelessly hoarse from the cold.
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The hymn will be sung in the silence of the deserted city.
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Chorus:
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We will sing, we will cry - this is the Russian style.
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How else can you take your soul away?
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We will sing, we will cry - this is the Russian style.
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How else can you take your soul away?
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It's autumn... It's autumn...
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Losing.
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There are no more words... I'm drying up with autumn letters.
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Red dawn drowned under the fallen leaves.
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Chorus:
|
We will sing, we will cry - this is the Russian style.
|
How else can you take your soul away?
|
We will sing, we will cry - this is the Russian style.
|
How else can you take your soul away?
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It's autumn... It's autumn...
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It's autumn... |