This grove of birch ,
Far from suffering and misery ,
Where ranges pink
Solid morning light ,
Where transparent Lavigne
Pour the leaves from the high branches -
Sing to me , oriole , the song of the desert,
Song of my life .
Flying over the glade
And seeing people from a height ,
elected wooden
Inconspicuous whistle you
To the freshness of the morning ,
Visiting a Human habitation,
Chastely poor matins
Meet my morning .
But in the life of the soldiers we
And already at the limits of the mind
Shudder atoms
White swirl vzmetaya home.
How crazy mill
War waving wings around.
Where are you, oriole , forest recluse ?
What do you fell silent , my friend?
Surrounded by explosions,
Over the river, where blackens cane,
You fly over the cliffs ,
Flying over the ruins of death .
Silent wanderer ,
You to accompany me to a fight ,
And a deadly cloud stretches
Over your head .
For the great rivers
The sun rises , and in the morning mist
With singed eyelids
I fall down , dead , to the ground.
Shouting mad raven
Trembling , shut up gun .
And then in my heart torn
Your voice will start singing .
