In Kazakhstan, near Karagaily, on the mounds from the Sun, bonfires.
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There in the steppes there is always long-awaited freedom.
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Among a pack of seasoned wolves, where there are no words, human words,
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The boy grew up and that life was very strange
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The flock lived by sleep and hunting, and always took care of the boy.
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He was just a wolf cub for them, only a weak one.
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He sucked milk from a she-wolf, and played funny, so strangely,
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Very smart, smart, albeit small.
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Here, one day, where the sun rises, there was a big helicopter.
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And like a bird hung over a flock, gray-black.
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And around the impenetrable steppe, you can still have time in the distant forest,
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The flock silently rushed towards him, doomed.
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The sun is in the sand or at its zenith, at noon the heat is worse.
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After all, a person runs badly - a wolf runs away faster.
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In the silence, the machine crackled ... "Boy, stop!" |
- someone screamed wildly.
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Gray wolves began to fall one after another.
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The wolves could not run fast, they saved the man,
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And they tried, pushing him, brutalized.
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With wolves, it's not like people, you don't dare to save yourself alone,
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And they did not leave the little boy alone.
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They died from fiery wounds, and the dawn scorched the mound,
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Scarlet blood washed the sand, slightly diluted.
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No one from the flock managed to enter the forest, the helicopter landed like a black bird.
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A little boy howled over the dead she-wolf.
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If he grew up with people, he would cry as they cry.
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And dust swirled over them like a gray cloud of dawn.
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The sun is in the sand or at its zenith, at noon the heat is worse.
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After all, a person runs badly - a wolf runs away faster.
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The sun is in the sand or at its zenith, at noon the heat is worse.
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After all, a person runs badly - a wolf runs away faster. |