And if those who do not have a soul in us,
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You won't have time to think on the fly,
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And there, at the gangway, they are already meeting us
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And see you off at the airport
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And so it goes: departure, arrival
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And it may very well be by God's will
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Then someone invented an airplane
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That someone had invented touring before,
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And somewhere there is snow, and somewhere there are storks on the roof,
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And somewhere there is snow, a day of rest and again a flight,
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And somewhere there is snow, posters are hanging in distant cities
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And this is ours, and this is our plane ticket
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Today I will fly to Sakhalin,
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And tomorrow I will fly from Magadan
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There is a city and perhaps more than one
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Where the unsmiling princess awaits me
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And so it has been flying away, arriving all its life
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And it may very well be by God's will
|
Then someone invented an airplane
|
That someone had invented touring before,
|
And somewhere there is snow, and somewhere there are storks on the roof,
|
And somewhere there is snow, a day of rest and again a flight,
|
And somewhere there is snow, posters are hanging in distant cities
|
And this is ours, and this is our plane ticket,
|
And somewhere there is snow, and somewhere there are storks on the roof,
|
And somewhere there is snow, a day of rest and again a flight,
|
And somewhere there is snow, posters are hanging in distant cities
|
And this is ours, and this is our plane ticket |