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Description

На песню Ольги Арефьевой "Трубач"

After a song in Russian

www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlYSvO…

The lyrics can be translated like that (I can't do good rhymes, so I just save the meaning):

The trumpeter's lips are frozen together

With his favorite iron chest.

A spiteful frost greets the train in vain

With the one who's not loved, whom you never wait.

Glossy faces showed up in the windows,

Only the trumpeter doesn't see a hole in the carriage's tambour.

The conductor loudly stirs near the stove,

But love gives no warmth to the frozen worlds.

He's the one soloist of the gone orchestra,

Everlastingly greeting with his trumpet's scream

Everyone who lost their time or place,

Everyone who was washed ashore to the lines of fate.

And a hand's still waving, it feels light and scared,

And the soul, like neck, feels empty without a cross,

Strangers have a habit of sticking to our friends,

And the friends' vocation is to change their places.

People of bread, and people of clay, and people of melted grass

An angel with a face of a wonderful fish is on a first-name basis with you.

Hug you even those who you didn't wait for,

Maybe they also need some warmth.

In the train all we are passengers of flesh,

On the platform - souls, steam on the pane.

We will act the gladness, we will sing and dance,

You will wave your trumpet in your frozen hand.

Play us the tunes of our funeral marches,

While you are so close with the Fate.

Description

На песню Ольги Арефьевой "Трубач"

After a song in Russian

www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlYSvO…

The lyrics can be translated like that (I can't do good rhymes, so I just save the meaning):

The trumpeter's lips are frozen together

With his favorite iron chest.

A spiteful frost greets the train in vain

With the one who's not loved, whom you never wait.

Glossy faces showed up in the windows,

Only the trumpeter doesn't see a hole in the carriage's tambour.

The conductor loudly stirs near the stove,

But love gives no warmth to the frozen worlds.

He's the one soloist of the gone orchestra,

Everlastingly greeting with his trumpet's scream

Everyone who lost their time or place,

Everyone who was washed ashore to the lines of fate.

And a hand's still waving, it feels light and scared,

And the soul, like neck, feels empty without a cross,

Strangers have a habit of sticking to our friends,

And the friends' vocation is to change their places.

People of bread, and people of clay, and people of melted grass

An angel with a face of a wonderful fish is on a first-name basis with you.

Hug you even those who you didn't wait for,

Maybe they also need some warmth.

In the train all we are passengers of flesh,

On the platform - souls, steam on the pane.

We will act the gladness, we will sing and dance,

You will wave your trumpet in your frozen hand.

Play us the tunes of our funeral marches,

While you are so close with the Fate.