Tale of Bun by Russian rock groups


You're free, you're a stranger in the family
 Whether as a warrior on his path
 The path is not close, so far away goal
 It should come off in most
 From wolves. etc.

Black ball mchishsya forest
 Luster teeth - sitting in the bushes Fox
 Round angel you - could not leave
 Only dust lies
 On your way


Where recreated the connection between grandmother and grandfather - old cripple
 Where is scattered dust and a little flour on the bottom of the barrel
 Where kneading with water and leave to lie during the day
 Where fire burns sides
 There I go
 Where the paths in the woods twisted silk thread, like snakes
 Where the sunset with a red dot on the black star smolders
 Where crow shouts far away in the protected territories
 Where to shine for birch fangs
 There I go

Where animal tracks on the barbed grass - do not count
 Where half get away from the teeth - honor
 Where is the queen of the red fox spark flicker openly
 Where no one will save from harm
 There I go

I raise my eyes and a lump in the breast is
 My song - wounded ...

Kalinov Most

In the middle of the marshes, on mosses mossy
 The family nest, with his grandfather, and grandmother
 The free spirit lived, brought up on bread
 As he left the thicket, in the thicket of sweet

Raven ragged, scoured the truth
 Yes, wolves bears beating aside
 Around solar Zorka highlighted
 Old groves sloping edge

To the sun struggled to truth-mother
 Wanted to get out of the woods
 Windbreaks bёg, just so there is no trail
 Did not see it in the ant fox ...


In the stove fire, smoke from the chimney
 There bun looks dreams
 Pocket Bear, pink wolf
 Lilac forest, aspen stake

Running wild boar, granny with a gun
 Fox boots standing in the rain
 Open the door, colored rug
 Dust on the table breathes old

Heat the pan, smoke from the chimney
 As he goes, we dream
 And all roads lead to one
 For the fox, it will swallow and say
 Sehr gut ...


No grandfather cigarettes
 Ended tea
 And the door to tell him

There is a road I
 On the night of leave, in autumn

Maybe back home
 By the spring of
 Maybe I lunch
 Fox ...


I was sitting under a birch tree and stared
 the sky
 I left home to seek
 The Door into Summer

I ran along the highway to the strawberry field
 And rustled the asphalt sometimes
 G Sharp

But Cunning fox-runs really me
 And I'm afraid this will be my last
 summer ...

© honestly do not know (


See also

New and interesting