Текст песни А. Злищев - дяде Серёже

In the sky, the cloudy pack sway,
Timber buds of red funnels.
And you gone, a little making,
On white feathers of these clouds.

Gone not heard on the threshold of summer
How the song of Nightingale left.
And in the yellow fingers of the cigarette trel,
This time, your last one.

And I do not know anyone in the world,
Who can think bad about you.
And the point is not even in a bad challenge,
You just lived adequately on Earth.

Forgive me that I do not accompany.
I know you didn't love it all.
I sit alone, and slamming tears
As if my Topol was spawned.

I press my hand, and hug firmly.
I hope you are on the approaches already
To another world, sunlight,
Where there is a peace of the punched soul.