The pain burns in my consciousness By a fresh disturbed wound: Why is your shape, Khan Tengri, Bewitched by a gloomy fog? Seeing your silhouette torn
That was where fire's spirit was playing the flute this warm evening. That world where Shaitan plays, to the accompaniment of the bugle drums bit. Blood
Ashes will scatter on earth as a necklace, beginning of night. Scars stare at us from the sky. The mirror of lake water will give us the way, The sublimity
[Instrumental]
hills and dark grey, almost black silhouettes of the Altay mountains. White stains of the nomad's urtahs. The shepherd incredibly chooses the right grey roads
