The taiga burns with northern flames. Graves grip crosses. Above them, winging slowly, Hawks glide – black hawks.
A storm climbs the sky, Blows sound beneath the earth. The souls of the dead are quieted By the voices of their homeland.
There is enough dirt for bones. Even more for ashes. A bloody flower blooms In eternity's palm.
Northern flames die on the taiga. Graves won't let go of their crosses. Over them, beating their wings, Hawks settle, black hawks.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.