Текст песни О мой маленький брат - Пусть без руки, без лица, без ступней Я узнала тебя

Forget about me
Just forget about me soon
Pushkin and Lermontov
There are the handle of the garden
Dead Indian Jews live better
I would be glad to paradise
But while sit on the edge

We, the Indian summer
Above lodges, sweet grass are
Dark spruce in the crown of moonlight
Forest lost in the woods
darkness enveloped

Oh, my little brother
With magic figs in your pocket
The multi-colored glasses
With a flower in his beard
Let not your hands, without a face, without feet
I knew you
You probably became the wind
You have nowhere else

We, the Indian summer
smaller rings
Taken in a large ring
Full head of moonlight
Anyone who stands in the meadow
I know in person