Ah, the road dust and fog,
Cold, anxiety, yes steppe weeds.
Know can not share their own,
Maybe wings are folded in the middle of the steppes.
Winds dust under the boots, steppes, fields,
A range of raging flames, but the bullets whistling.
Ah, the road dust and fog,
Cold, anxiety, yes steppe weeds.
Shot burst, the crows circling,
Your friend in the weeds lying lifeless.
And on the road races, dusts, clubs,
A circle of the earth smokes, foreign land.
Ah, the road dust and fog,
Cold, anxiety, yes steppe weeds.
The edge of the pine, the sun rises,
At the steps of native son mother waits.
And endless ways, steppes, fields
All of us look vosled native eyes.
Ah, the road dust and fog,
Cold, anxiety, yes steppe weeds.
Snow whether wind, remember, friends,
We can not forget these roads.