Tired frost, comes from afar,
Outside, the wind noise so slightly.
Frost in a quilted jacket, walking in the desert,
Takes up a stick, moves the hand.
Tired frost, comes from afar,
And my legs, where my granddaughter.
Frost under the tired, coming from afar,
And the horses ran away, the harness in his hands.
Oh, my horses, Oh my horses,
Much the same? ran, you white lions.
Where you surf, the steppe was not seen,
Where you hid the mother surface.
Oh, my horses, Oh my horses,
Tired from the road my feet.
And the youngest granddaughters, his grandfather is,
Drifting at Santa comes and sweeps.
Oh, my horses, Oh my horses,
Much the same? Ran away, my stallions.
And where are you? Hide, my horses,
Tired to find my feet.
Chirik V.V. CENTURIES g 00:50