Lyrics Роман Сусалёв - Трава разлуки
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Золото моё - листья ломкие на ветру.
Серебро моё - словно капля росы костру.
Кровь с лица сотрёт ветра тонкая рука.
Завтра не придёт, лишь трава разлуки высока...
Золото моё - ковылём да степной травой.
Серебро моё разменяли на сталь и боль.
Струны не звенят, ветер бьется в небесах,
Не тревожь меня, лишь ладонью мне закрой глаза.
Рассекли доспех, чтобы легче дышалось мне.
Невеликий грех - в битве не до жалости!
Из цветов и звёзд не сплести уже венка.
На дороге слёз лишь трава разлуки высока...
Вереск на равнине, да горы как горький лёд.
Не найти долины, где встречи трава растёт.
Как найти мне силы, чтоб вернуться через века,
Чтобы ты простил... А трава разлуки высока...
Шорох тонких льдинок, слова ли листвой шуршат.
Плачет ли в долине бездомная душа.
Чёрных маков море, да нет моего цветка,
Лишь полынь да горечь, да трава разлуки высока...
Золото моё - листья ломкие на ветру.
Серебро моё - словно капля росы костру.
Кровь с лица сотрёт ветра тонкая рука.
Завтра не придёт, лишь трава...
My gold is fragile in the wind.
My silver is like a drop of dew a fire.
Blood from his face will wipe the wind with a thin hand.
Tomorrow will not come, only the grass of separation is high ...
My gold is a feather grass and steppe grass.
My silver was exchanged for steel and pain.
The strings do not ring, the wind beats in the sky,
Do not disturb me, just close my eyes to my hand.
Broken armor, to breathe easier to me.
A small sin - in battle, not to pity!
Of flowers and stars do not weave a wreath already.
On the road of tears, only the grass of separation is high ...
Heather on the plain, and mountains like bitter ice.
Do not find the valley where the grass gathers grass.
How can I find strength to return through the ages,
So that you forgive ... And the grass of separation is high ...
A rustle of thin ice floes, whether the words rustle.
A homeless soul cries in the valley.
Black poppies are the sea, yes there is no my flower,
Only wormwood and bitterness, yes the grass of separation is high ...
My gold is fragile in the wind.
My silver is like a drop of dew a fire.
Blood from his face will wipe the wind with a thin hand.
Tomorrow will not come, just grass ...
My silver is like a drop of dew a fire.
Blood from his face will wipe the wind with a thin hand.
Tomorrow will not come, only the grass of separation is high ...
My gold is a feather grass and steppe grass.
My silver was exchanged for steel and pain.
The strings do not ring, the wind beats in the sky,
Do not disturb me, just close my eyes to my hand.
Broken armor, to breathe easier to me.
A small sin - in battle, not to pity!
Of flowers and stars do not weave a wreath already.
On the road of tears, only the grass of separation is high ...
Heather on the plain, and mountains like bitter ice.
Do not find the valley where the grass gathers grass.
How can I find strength to return through the ages,
So that you forgive ... And the grass of separation is high ...
A rustle of thin ice floes, whether the words rustle.
A homeless soul cries in the valley.
Black poppies are the sea, yes there is no my flower,
Only wormwood and bitterness, yes the grass of separation is high ...
My gold is fragile in the wind.
My silver is like a drop of dew a fire.
Blood from his face will wipe the wind with a thin hand.
Tomorrow will not come, just grass ...