| We have trampled into dust,
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| The emptiness of endless steppe.
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| We have filled with the ring of blades,
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| The space of the continent.
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| We were galloping towards that distant line,
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| Where the sky closes up with the earth.
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| We were dethroning princes,
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| And ruining walls of the palace
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| And it seemed that we were swiping the cities away,
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| Just with a wave of a hand
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| Winter is my name.
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| Time has come again.
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| Memories of the past day, have gotten cold and ask for fire.
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| Ground, is a flesh wound, open for the winter sleep.
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| In the expanse of the high skies, the gates are already open wide.
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| In his voice there are steel and fire,
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| And tramping of hundreds of thousands steeds.
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| His will is the will of Tengri…
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| «You know your future, Great Khan»
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| «We rode back home. |
| My father didn’t talk.
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| Finally he said to me: „You did good. |
| A man has to choose his wife.“
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| I didn’t know that day… would change my life forever.» |