| When in dashing years it smells of people's misfortune,
|
| Then in the midnight hour, quiet, discreet
|
| An old man comes out of the forest
|
| And look - he's not an old man at all,
|
| On the contrary, quite young - handsome Dubrovsky.
|
| Wake up, my Kostroma, don't sleep, Saratov and Tver.
|
| It’s not a century for us to mumble trouble and cry about bread.
|
| Dubrovsky takes the eroplane, Dubrovsky flies up
|
| And flies over the sinful earth, and writes in the sky:
|
| Don't cry, Masha, I'm here.
|
| Don't cry, the sun will rise.
|
| Don't hide your eyes from God
|
| How will he find us?
|
| Heavenly City of Jerusalem
|
| Burning through cold and ice.
|
| And here he stands around us
|
| And waiting for us, and waiting for us.
|
| He threw down his shield and his sword, threw his revolver into the ditch
|
| He realized that there is no one to take revenge on, and breathes happily.
|
| In a difficult hour for the motherland, his airplane flies over us,
|
| Beautiful as an iconostasis, and writes, and writes:
|
| Don't cry, Masha, I'm here.
|
| Don't cry, the sun will rise.
|
| Don't hide your eyes from God
|
| How will he find us?
|
| Heavenly City of Jerusalem
|
| Burning through cold and ice
|
| And here he stands around us
|
| And waiting for us, waiting for us. |