this is a wonderful musician, a kura player, this is a folk musical instrument of bashkiria, robert yuldashev, the dust and the fog, the cold trails, and the steppe storms, you don’t know... you can share the pile, you can fold the wings, after the steppe, the dust beats down on your boots. fields, forests, and all around the flames are raging to the point of a bullet, oh, roads, dust and dust... fog, cold, anxiety, and the steppe weeds, a shot thunders, the city spins, oh, god lies lifeless in the weeds, and the road rushes on, pours out, muddles, all around the earth smokes, a foreign land. and oh, horns, dust and fog, alarming cold, and steppe storm. praise the alarm to the steppe buryan. jie. christ sing, look, try the roads of the forest, ko sa chrisnya. let’s sing, friends, because tomorrow we’ll go hiking, we’ll go into the pre-dawn fog, we’ll sing more joyfully. let the battle captain sing along to us, goodbye beloved short, we are leaving for the sea tomorrow. tyranny sometimes, behind karma, the familiar blue scarf turns white, and the evening is again so good that we can’t help but