| Frosty morning, cold morning
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| A guy in a white shirt is being carried.
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| And under the mourning march,
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| Yes, on Vagankovo,
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| Oh, how hard is your last journey.
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| Relatives and friends bowed low,
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| Here is the last blow of the hammer.
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| Depreciated life
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| And what is the truth now
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| If sobbing, is the soul torn?
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| Brothers, do not shoot each other,
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| You have nothing to share in life.
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| At the round table, forget the insults,
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| After all, it's hard for everyone to bury friends.
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| You Russians are strong guys
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| And no one will ever take away your spirit.
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| Only now in a black veil,
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| Bowing mournfully, the mother sobs.
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| Brothers, do not shoot each other,
|
| You have nothing to share in life.
|
| At the round table, forget the insults,
|
| After all, it's hard for everyone to bury friends.
|
| Brothers, do not shoot each other,
|
| You have nothing to share in life.
|
| At the round table, forget the insults,
|
| After all, it's hard for everyone to bury friends.
|
| Brothers, do not shoot each other,
|
| You have nothing to share in life.
|
| At the round table, forget the insults,
|
| After all, it's hard for everyone to bury friends. |