English lyrics On the river the sun has set, A small city stands Up the mountain the cathedral shines in the night, On crossroad of Karl Marx and Engels. On the intersection of two eras, as if lost, To a well-planned way of life, Where the central place is decorated Only by the figure of grandpa Lenin. And he stands, his arms reaching out to us, Already under a hundred layers of paint, The pigeons are flying, and their crap Is dropped on Illitch's bald head. But he's still standing... But he's still standing The local folks are hiding from the heat, In the night the TVs are humming Where they suffer from crisis and sanctions, And the nearest station is a hundred miles away. And he stands, his arms reaching out to us, Already under a hundred layers of paint, With a sprout on his shoulders, That's why he remains majestic. And he stands, his arms reaching out to us, already under a hundred layers of paint, And he stands, while kids wander around with their moms. On the river, the sun has set, A small city stands, The only decent words are "Fuck" and "Go" And the yearning is so green. And he stands, his arms reaching out to us, Already under a hundred layers of paint, The pigeons are flying and their crap Is dropped on Illitch's bald head. But he's still standing... But he's still standing.
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English lyrics
On the river the sun has set,
A small city stands
Up the mountain the cathedral shines in the night,
On crossroad of Karl Marx and Engels.
On the intersection of two eras, as if lost,
To a well-planned way of life,
Where the central place is decorated
Only by the figure of grandpa Lenin.
And he stands, his arms reaching out to us,
Already under a hundred layers of paint,
The pigeons are flying, and their crap
Is dropped on Illitch's bald head.
But he's still standing...
But he's still standing
The local folks are hiding from the heat,
In the night the TVs are humming
Where they suffer from crisis and sanctions,
And the nearest station is a hundred miles away.
And he stands, his arms reaching out to us,
Already under a hundred layers of paint,
With a sprout on his shoulders,
That's why he remains majestic.
And he stands, his arms reaching out to us, already under a hundred layers of paint,
And he stands, while kids wander around with their moms.
On the river, the sun has set,
A small city stands,
The only decent words are "Fuck" and "Go"
And the yearning is so green.
And he stands, his arms reaching out to us,
Already under a hundred layers of paint,
The pigeons are flying and their crap
Is dropped on Illitch's bald head.
But he's still standing...
But he's still standing.