Текст песни Борис Циммерман - Белокурые полки

Blond shelves
Clean-shaven whiskey
We went butts and bayonets.

There were iron socks
Dust trampled boots,
Knee boots.

And the land was waiting for love
Instead of falling dead bread
And burned wires.

At the hour named Trouble
Pereplёvannoe & quot; yes & quot ;.
Day named Wednesday.

It is a place without men,
No particular reason
All'm not disgusting than Khatyn.

Hands together, feet apart,
Torn and caked.
Come on, the hair Ruskin.

And the land still waiting for love,
Curse and save.
We do not burn without smoke.

To harness and pull,
Zagloni not moan
Whether the enemy, or the father.

And rising in the Nurse's daughter.
And at dawn tends night.
And cried my eyes.

Above his head a soldier,
Oshlemovannoy bashkoj
Zapletal grass.

And the land still waiting for love,
Top-top stamp your bare feet,
Where it burned tarpaulin.

You booze, I pull up.
Everything seemed to be alone,
A count to us - just two.