Leaves are flying as the sacred signs.
Leaves fly as sacred signs,
ragged falls to the ground laughing.
The intersections are paddy;
they are obviously not enough for all.
Spooky chills - like during a snowstorm,
like a soul lost in the darkness.
It seems to me that the heavens grew old,
really not happy with us on earth.
August coughs from the acrid smoke,
house of cards floats on the Volga.
and on the ruins of the third Rome
the Legionnaires beat the people.
In disguise, and against the scrap no reception;
have robocops empty eyes.
Hear the peals of distant thunder?
It away is massing his forces in the afternoon.
The intersections are paddy wagons.
The smoke from the Siberian forests over the country.
Leaves fly as sacred signs;
a storm is growing, it is behind you.