music by evgeny ptichkin. the trees are lost in the fog, the sun is rising, on the red... hillocks of jokingly remember their lives, here a cliff dives into the river, trusting. skoe my childhood, my village childhood, from the fire of cockscombs, the dawn lights up in the distance, the balls circle, the smell of rain, the smell of hay. and warm earth, here buckets are breaking into the wells, a crazy wind is whitening the fields, here females are rushing through the snow, my rural childhood, villages. they are pouring into a club of harmony, the yellow moon has bent deep, and tired folni are grazing in a cool and wet meadow, here they handed me the land as an inheritance. there is no way i can live without her, this is where my childhood is written, my rural childhood, my rural childhood. my rural childhood. the smell of rain, the smell of hay and warm earth is dizzying, here buckets clink at the well, a crazy wind rinses the laundry, here my rural childhood rushes through the snow on a sleigh. this is my rural childhood, why is this song so close to you and why do you like it so muc