| Well, how are we with you, my friend,
|
| Now get out of the habit of wandering,
|
| Get used to homemade food
|
| Stop being stupid?
|
| What are our household names?
|
| After all, things are up to the throat, and the years are rushing by.
|
| And for what, we do not know ourselves,
|
| We go through life with backpacks.
|
| Chorus: We have no rest. |
| Us the noise of trains
|
| Suggest stories for future dreams.
|
| Over the years, these paths grow into us
|
| And they bless us to go further.
|
| Not for mushrooms, not to the country,
|
| Not by car and not to the sea.
|
| We take with us a sister-luck,
|
| And it doesn’t matter to categories,
|
| What all routes share
|
| By kilometers and minutes.
|
| We, breaking out of comfort,
|
| Laughing, apparently, the devil beguiled.
|
| Chorus.
|
| Hello relatives, let's not go close,
|
| But there is experience, and we believe the word.
|
| We will not feast in a clean house,
|
| We measure friendship along a dangerous path.
|
| Without waiting for repentance
|
| We take into account the distances,
|
| Paths, clearings and dunes,
|
| And the day when there was a gloomy friend.
|
| Chorus: We have no rest. |
| Us the noise of trains
|
| Suggest stories for future dreams.
|
| Tramps of the earth, six strings at hand,
|
| And it's not the first time for us to return home.
|
| And do not understand how it can
|
| All my life to beckon the road,
|
| But something is drilling, something is gnawing,
|
| And I will go off the threshold again.
|
| In the mountains we are all slightly poets,
|
| And silhouettes in the blue haze
|
| We will draw a map of life,
|
| And, therefore, we do not risk in vain! |