We are no more, we are the last, all that’s left for us is the bright sky forever, forever... Our souls, like a dream, slip through it unseen over the land of Hanguray, my beloved Hanguray, you stopped being paradise long ago, long ago, long ago... And below: the taiga, the village, a familiar house, your land, above the earth, our sky, and our stories are forgotten. A lonely old man, all by himself, sits and plays the shor. In his dry hands the flute trembles and weeps, made from a bundle of grass. He draws out a sad tune about childhood dreams and forget-me-nots, about bright days and joy, joy, joy... We will be no more, we are the last, we are leaving for the bright sky, our souls, like a dream, slip through it unseen over the land of Hanguray, all the places we held dear. Someone will say: “we lived here,” someone will say: “they forgot us,” a third will say: “the songs are still alive, they’re sung and not forgotten.” We will be no more. We will be no more, we are the last, we are leaving for the bright sky, our souls, like a dream, slip through it unseen over the land of Hanguray, all the places we held dear. Someone will say: “we lived here,” someone will say: “they forgot us,” a third will say: “the songs are still alive, they’re sung and not forgotten.” The land is yours, above the land is our sky.
