Текст песни муз Ю.Симакин,сл. Н. Рубцов, - Элегия. А. Асадуллин

Elegy

Hit on your pocket - it doesn't ring!
I hit it differently - not to hear it!
To your quiet, mysterious zenith
Thoughts flew to rest.

But I'll wake up and go out the door
And I'll go to the wind, to the slope
About the sadness of the roads passed
Rustle with remnants of hair.

Memory is beaten off.
Youth disappears from under my feet.
The sun makes a circle -
Life counts down.

I knock on my pocket - it does not ring!
I will knock on another - not to hear!
If only I'm famous
Then I'll go to Yalta to rest ...