Текст песни Игорь Лазарев - Пастушок

This is the voice of grass, from overripe meadows coming barely noticeable
Or the sounds of flutes under the fingers of those shepherds who went into the dark forest,
They became an exhale of darkness, moving heavy heavy black branches
A bright yellow beam and a whirl of dust .. No one has seen them since.

No matter how delirious the sound is, it will not be closer, nor further, nor louder, nor quieter
Do not look for traces or marks of those hands that compress the bone flute easily.
And you can’t find a way back, but if you look back you can hear
How slowly the juniper with the birch, lichen and spruce lead a conversation.

And the further you go along with the overgrown path, the clearer and louder
In this whisper and clatter of branches, the singing of the ancient as the world, but of living voices,
What are you calling to become an overflow of the magic choir of an abandoned grove
And watch the forest animals and amuse the game with tits, waxwings and owls.

So go cowgirl! What did you leave in the world cold, unkind, cruel?
On a rough path lost in the thicket, winding between the trunks
The sun will hide behind a low mountain, the night will spill a cool stream,
Summer rain will wake you up on a warm morning. The branches will rise.