Still searching for my way, the right way to be
still pondering what I've done
I'm still thinking what I've said, still finding from within
and all that I know is still not enough
I'm being held by the one
shadow tormenting my soul
the curving neck of a swan
the slow turning of a birds head
So white its plumes and feathers
its breast like the moon in water
silent and tranquil it moves
on the river in the calm
I wander back on familiar roads
I sense the marks I left on the hills
I see the cuts and wounds of my deeds
they make me muse on life
Up the hill and the mountain
I look back, I look down
there flows the River of Death
and here the wind in my hair
|
Switch to Russian 
