In Kazakhstan, under Karagaily ,
On the mound fires of the sun .
There steppes, where freedom is always ,
The long-awaited .
Among the pack of wolves hardened ,
Where there are no words of human words .
Little boy grew , and the life that was ,
Very strange .
A flock of sleep and lived by hunting ,
And boy is always treasured .
Was it just for them cub ,
Only weak .
Milk from the wolf sucked
And so funny strange game .
Very clever clever such
Though small.
Then one day where the sun rises ,
There was a large helicopter.
And like a bird over a bunch of hung ,
Sulfur black .
And around the impenetrable steppe
In the distant forest can still make it.
Flock silently jerked toward him,
Doomed .
Chorus:
Sun in the sand or in the zenith,
At midday heat fiercely .
After all, people poorly run,
Wolf Reaches faster.
In the silence of the machine crackled ,
Boy stop, someone screamed wildly .
Began to fall one by one,
Gray wolves .
Wolves quickly escape could not ,
Man they rescued
And old, pushed him
Brutalized .
Wolves because neither as humans ,
Alone, do not you dare to escape .
And the little boy they were one ,
Have left .
Died of wounds fire ,
A dawn seared mound.
Red blood washed over the sand ,
Slightly diluted .
In the forest of the pack no one has ,
Helicopter black bird, sat .
Over the dead she-wolf howling ,
A little boy .
If he grew up with people
He wept as they cry .
And clubs over it and zorёy ,
Gray clouds of dust.
Chorus: (2 times)
