My little Russian folk

She has three elder brothers, gone to the army,
She has little siblings, some too young to speak.
I am a soldier, far from home, fighting the war,
I love her very much as my sister whom I love

On our wedding day I wore my uniform,
Muddy fields staining my soldier’s shoes.
I had just returned from afar, from my unit,
She’s so nice, smiled beside her odd husband

In troubled times, who needs a wedding dress?
When the wedding just done, I must depart,
From distant lands I recall my worry,
Marrying a soldier, how many return?

Yet it is not the soldier who dies,
But the young girl from the lowlands,
Yet it is not the soldier who dies,
But the young girl from the lowlands.

I return, however I do not see her,
The Wedding flowers now incense,
Remembering her gentle ways,
Her dress trimmed along the edge

Remembering the purple color she loves,
Remembering her love of sim-colored blooms.
At the moment of parting, we have no time
And no words are spoken between us.

Afternoon I march through the sim hills,
The sim hills, purple flowers on the hills,
Purple all through the lonely afternoon.
A chill wind over the golden grave.

A lullaby murmurs: “ Your jacket frays at the seam,
Your wife died early, mother has not yet sewn.”
The sim hills, the sim hills, purple flowers on the hills,
Purple flowers on the hills, purple flowers on the hills.