Lyrics for music

The texts for the music of Sergey Afanasiev are protected by copyright.
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Lyrics for music


It's time for rain, wind freedom,
The peace of withered grasses, the bleak look of the fields,
A wedge at dawn of flying cranes -
A parting cry of exhausted nature.

Expanse of fields and whisper of pines,
A thick shroud of the awakened forest
Silence of bird voices -
Autumn is coming into its own again.

Gray haze of misty dreams,
Winter's breath, an eternity of silence,
And, in anticipation of Spring,
I can't stop the rush of autumn tears!

In the clear air of the nights,
Forgotten dreams stupid obsession,
Deception false vision
In the cold darkness of the sun's rays -
And in this Autumn, a sad creation.

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The last ghost of the night, heeding in exhaustion
To the prayers of the born day
Will disappear as an echo in the bustling traffic.

And there, waking up from a dream in pleasure,
In the death cry of a thunderstorm, in the agony of rain
A tear of dew, closed in the dust of oblivion,
He will give up the spirit, cursing his life without regret.

And somewhere in the still sleeping murky distances,
In the brilliant echoes of a cold stream,
Wandering, in the sky I dream of leaving,
Melancholy of the forest nightingale,
Tossing about in their troubles and sorrows.

In the targets of the clumped transparent web,
In the wet leaves of drowsy forests
Suddenly the sun's ray, unwillingly languishing
Hoping to break out of the shackles of mourning,
It will break through the abyss of the firmament!..

And the cry of friendly waders
Melts in the cloud plains
Over the dreams of lazy shepherds.


The air is darkening over the evening field
Under the weight of faded shadows.
The silent forest is sad and calm
In the frozen gloom of the blackening branches.

There is the fragrance of a silent garden
Night creeps on... And the mourning of silence
It flows through the rustling of leaves
Holding my breath in the moonlight.

There behind the sweat of fear
The world is numb alone with you,
And the voice that rose from the dust
It will turn out to be an impossible plea.

There is an image, driven by loneliness,
He will call out to the soul with a disconsolate cry.
There he wanders through the lost valleys
An invisible ghost who believed in luck.