We are blacks, Wandering in the mist,
Where does our knowledge of the torch
And the old priest with a frown on his brow,
exposes the suffering.
silent, roll neznaemыy granite,
Circle - a stone sounds.
He looks down absently
And guides our hand.
we falter. bell, fell, pickaxe -
Look in the eyes, not every dare…
Only the old priest - smile down
We blesnet - and fear rasseet.
