Ты рожден был в степи на скрипучей телеге, пара птиц над тобой замолчала тогда. Ты кричал - может, крик этот слышали греки, и в песках просыпалась вода. Ты кричал - ты был против такого начала, но тебя плохо слышали мать и отец. Быть рожденным в рубашке, по-прежнему мало - надо встать под терновый венец.
Долго рос не под белой отцовской рубахой ты в дорогу брал восемь колючих ежей. Но дорога оказалась не больше, чем плаха, и ежи превращались в мышей. А потом головами обиженных Богом был закончен твой гимн и исполнена казнь, но пошли твои звери дорогой востока, А над ними заря занялась. You were born in the steppe on a squeaky wagon, a pair of birds over you was silent then. You shouted - maybe this cry was heard by the Greeks, and in the sands water was waking up. You shouted - you were against such a start, but you were not well heard by mother and father. Being born in a shirt is still not enough - need to stand under the crown of thorns.
Long did not grow under his father's white shirt You took eight prickly hedgehogs on the road. But the road was no more than a scaffold, and hedgehogs were turned into mice. And then the heads offended by God your anthem was finished and executed but send your beasts dear east And the dawn over them took up.