Текст песни Александр Закшевский - Дорога домой

I return home where so long I was not,
And drunk the beauty of white slender birches.
Golden fields poured bread,
Under the feet of dew, as if droplets of tears.

Now the village appeared in the distance,
And buying a tear flowed down the cheek.
The smell of beveled herbs, nightingale trills,
I walked for you so long that I could not believe me.

Chorus:
You, native land, do not judge me strictly!
I left you, but I returned again.
And through the years everything is waiting for the window lonely,
From separation with me, a dishonest mother.

Life threw me on a distant alien,
I froze in the snow and burned in the sun.
Only often in a dream Mother will tell me quietly:
"Hands, son! Lunch on the table. "

Chorus:
You, native land, do not judge me strictly!
I left you, but I returned again.
And through the years everything is waiting for the window lonely,
From separation with me, a dishonest mother.