Белая кость(Английская)№1 — Anton Egorov

Текст песни

(Instrumental only: Low earth drone... A single wooden flute plays a distant, sad motif)
(Whispered voice in background: "Ssh... This is the breath of eternal permafrost...")

From Arkaim's mounds to ancient wooden gods,
Where Veles herds fogs through northern clouds...
We didn't take foreign lands by sword, we learned to read the tracks,
Inserting a firebird's feather into rain-soaked cracks.
A peaceful farmer, blacksmith, storyteller, carver of white stone,
Our main law was a home, warmed by common flame alone.
We built our cities from wood, wrote laws on birch bark sheets,
Not for blind persecution, but so conscience could meet the streets.
Our horizon replaced all frames, an ocean instead of walls,
We rose from white clay pits, answering destiny's calls...

They tried to erase us with floods, frost, and fire,
But we build our house again where nothing perspires...

Through thousands of years of trials and bitter loss,
Where brother stood up for brother past burning cross!
About peace of soul, about width of free fields,
That can hold planet's pain and swan cry it yields!
From southern gardens to polar sleeping ice —
This is our fate. This is our holy land...

We held shields facing east, met uninvited guests,
So wheat spikes would rustle over children's nests.
Smolensk and capital burned, snow turned black with soot,
But spirit straightened itself through rage under foot.
We remember Veche bell and schismatic strict code,
The rebellious market spirit had its own road.
Pyotr's bold will, Suvorov's solid redoubt,
We took Berlin reluctantly when they brought war about.
We measured land not by blood — we measured by faith in covenant,
And every son's prayer kept light ever-present...

(Music cuts out almost completely. Only piano drops like water drops and wind noise)
And after the war... Silence... And Levitan over Volga...
Black soil that drinks any grief like a wet canvas sheet...
Pushkin's verse, Lomonosov's mind, first man in space...
Gagarin said "Poyehali!" blessing this very place...
Taiga holding millions of secrets in green captivity...
Baikal's crystal abyss goes deeper than infinity...
No bucket or lead can reach bottom there...
Russia isn't a dot on map. Russia is sphere...

They split us by borders, cut us to scraps and threads,
But you can't divide roots, flowers, and daily breads...

Through thousands of years of trials and bitter loss,
Where brother stood up for brother past burning cross!
About peace of soul, about width of free fields,
That can hold planet's pain and swan cry it yields!
From southern gardens to polar sleeping ice —
This is our fate. This is our holy land...
(Add second layer of vocals here: Male octave below + Female high harmony)

(Single Gusli returns, playing intro theme twice...)
(Violin holds one long, fading note...)
(Earth drone fades into silence...)
(Whispered: "One thousand one hundred forty-seven words...")
"...and all of them are about love."
"For this white winter. For these stars in rye."
Just listen. Breathe. Live.