Текст песни Михаил Катков - Эхо

The truth is made to seek between the lines,
The truth is made to plant under the castle.
But the shovel will kill - here it is -
And no longer will be overwhelmed - truth!

The whole huge country is a cemetery,
Where the blood spilled soldiers - pasture;
And grieve about her bread with groves
On smelled bones - are taken.

*
But sometimes threshing - Echo of that war,
And the mist sails the smoke.
Here in the ground for thousands of Luzst - steel rings,
Here in the Earth on the Tych Lest - dust is forgotten.
*

Slavs have long been lifted by the fate,
Cited our past crosses
And mocked glooming over history -
Sucked bukwari, territory.

Morning in gray clouds sun hid.
The dust of fate lies in the bags sealed.
I got and lit a bitter "accept"
As if himself was killed here before the dawn.

*
But sometimes threshing - Echo of that war,
And the mist sails the smoke.
Here in the ground for thousands of Luzst - steel rings,
Here in the ground on the soldier, the warrior sleeps ...