Текст песни Борис Чирков - На ветвях израненного тополя

In branches wounded poplar
Warm breath of wind.
Above the desert raid Sevastopol
Neither the crescent moon, no lights.

That night quarters scorched,
Breaking the darkness of night-feeding,
It was a seaman, saying goodbye to the bastions,
On the side of a dead ship.

It was a sailor on the bays dull,
Where is the soul of all the pebbles are lovely.
In the old cemetery on the graves
The guards raised their trunks.

He stood. Striped vest
Stained thick clotted.
He said; & Quot; I am rich make war,
With your black pack fought relish & quot ;.

In branches wounded poplar
Warm breath of wind.
Above the desert raid Sevastopol
Neither the crescent moon, no lights.

1943