Текст песни А.Кузнецов на стихи А.Макаревича - То, что любовь - беда, а не награда

What love is trouble, and not a reward,
I understood late - on the outcome of the day.
All those who loved stronger than necessary,
Once left me.
And I rushed after, knocked in the window,
And knew that in vain, and became bad,
Sorry himself, and everything seemed to be died,
And ran. And nevertheless, not dead.
... Land Mala, and - Round, like a saucer.
Circles are all already like I will see.
The day will come - and they will all return.
Return everything.
And what am I telling them?