I pass valleys, a way among different civilizations
Amon different c**tures, valleys, mountains under the heat of the red sun
If only you wish, I would be a chasm
If only you wish, I would be a river
I'll hear this call under sand's thorns
But I'll overcome my hard way.
I know and I believe in words of the old shaman
He told me about a forgotten way
Not being afraid of snakes and wolves and to worship fire
The nature to enjoy and trusting myself
The desert smells like the sea, open s***e and freshness.
You see nothing. Endlessness. A scratch of s***e.
Here is another silence. Like a lake, northern silence - rings, and that is she.
Here the silence is empty. It is no longer there.
Nothing exists... nothing.
Columns of dust fly upon the desert as spirits and genies,
protecting their possessions.
Sands like herds of huge horses, rising under the clouds.
Desert is not yellow - dried up, as it seemed before.
It's grey-brown-yellow-green, seems more steppe than a desert.
The ground is entirely covered with a dusty-green low grass,
Branches of saxaul, sickly yellow flowers.
Here and there the white animal's bones is growing and picked by winds.
Gray-brown, low hills and dark grey, almost black silhouettes aof the Altay mountains.
White stains of the nomad's urtahs.
The shepherd incredibly chooses the right grey roads, thread from a huge ball.
Hidden in the desert, Desert is inside me...
Amon different c**tures, valleys, mountains under the heat of the red sun
If only you wish, I would be a chasm
If only you wish, I would be a river
I'll hear this call under sand's thorns
But I'll overcome my hard way.
I know and I believe in words of the old shaman
He told me about a forgotten way
Not being afraid of snakes and wolves and to worship fire
The nature to enjoy and trusting myself
The desert smells like the sea, open s***e and freshness.
You see nothing. Endlessness. A scratch of s***e.
Here is another silence. Like a lake, northern silence - rings, and that is she.
Here the silence is empty. It is no longer there.
Nothing exists... nothing.
Columns of dust fly upon the desert as spirits and genies,
protecting their possessions.
Sands like herds of huge horses, rising under the clouds.
Desert is not yellow - dried up, as it seemed before.
It's grey-brown-yellow-green, seems more steppe than a desert.
The ground is entirely covered with a dusty-green low grass,
Branches of saxaul, sickly yellow flowers.
Here and there the white animal's bones is growing and picked by winds.
Gray-brown, low hills and dark grey, almost black silhouettes aof the Altay mountains.
White stains of the nomad's urtahs.
The shepherd incredibly chooses the right grey roads, thread from a huge ball.
Hidden in the desert, Desert is inside me...