Текст песни Олег Митяев - Он стар, он похож на свое одиночество.

He is old
And similar to his loneliness.
He is to talk about the weather, you do not want.
He at once - with the question:
- And you're not from Vitebsk ..? -
Old-fashioned jacket lapel wiped ...
- No, I'm not ... Vitebsk -
Long pause.
And then - the words monotonously and cloudy:
- Labor, is ill ...
In Venice - Exhibition ...
So you're not from Vitebsk? ..
- No, not from Vitebsk ... -
He is looking towards.
I do not hear, do not hear.
Some unearthly remoteness breathing.
Trying to childhood
To touch gently ...
And no or Cannes or the Cote d'Azur,
No current fame ...
Light and confusion
He reaches for the Vitebsk like a plant.
One of his Vitebsk - dusty and hot -
Pinned to the ground fire watch tower.
There's a wedding and death, prayers and fairs.
They ripen
Especially large apples,
And sleepy cabby rolls over the area ...
- And you're not from Vitebsk ..? -
He pauses.
And suddenly he says, as the most-most,
Street names:
"Smolensk"
"Castle."
As the Volga-river boasts Vitba
And waving
As a child by the hand of a transparent ...
- So you're not from Vitebsk ... -
It is necessary to say goodbye.
Saying goodbye.
Most return home ...
Trees are
Along the road to attention.
It's getting dark ...
And sorry,
What I am not from Vitebsk.