Текст песни Илья Верховский - Маленький барабанщик

verses VP Krapivin

When we hide behind the sinuses
  winds battered flags
and burn silently at coast
  last ships
our little drummer
  leave for the evening sun
and fine shiny icicles
  increases given in the yellow.
From the bitter ashes,
  from the abandoned alleys,
where the rain beat monotonously
  on roofs, both coffins,
betrayal of the evil that picks
  in the houses deserted and echoing,
our little drummer
  leave without passing the drum.
But there is a consolation - as if
  the last round in the cage -
Last bittersweet,
  that each of us was right.
And because of the planet
  marching drummer -
He is straight and fine,
  touching the tops of the grasses.