It was a Friday in April 1986 The day that the nightmare began When the dust it rained down on our buildings and streets And entered our bedrooms at noon Touched the grass and the trees, bicycles, cars Beds books and picture frames too We stood around, helpless, confused Nobody knew what to do
At two o'clock on Sunday the buses arrived A fleet of a thousand or more We were ordered to be on our way Not knowing what lay in store Some of our citizens fled in dismay And looked for a good place to hide Four o'clock came and the last bus pulled out T'was the day our lovely town died
And the shirts, sheets and handkerchiefs crack in the wind On the window ledge the withering plants And the Ladas and Volgas are parked by the door And the bike's in its usual stance Our evergreen trees lie withered and drooped They've poisoned our fertile land The streets speak a deafening silence Nothing stirs but the sand
A visit back home is so eerie today A modern Pompeii on view To see all the old shops and the Forest Hotel And the Promyet Cinema too The mementos we gathered were all left behind Our Photos, letters and cards The toys of our children untouchable now Toy soldiers left standing on guard
So fare thee well Pripyat, my home and my soul Your sorrow can know no relief A terrifying glimpse of the future you show Your children all scattered like geese The clothes line still sways but the owners long gone As the nomadic era returns The question in black and white blurred into grey The answer is too easy to learn
And the shirts, sheets and handkerchiefs crack in the wind On the window ledge the withering plants And the Ladas and Volgas are parked by the door And the bike's in its usual stance Our evergreen trees lie withered and drooped They've poisoned our fertile land The streets speak a deafening silence Nothing stirs but the sandTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
