Poplars’ Whisper
“Little House in the Village” (Melody: Soft, folk-romantic, in the style of Bulat Okudzhava or Lev Leshchenko) Verse 1: Beyond the river, where poplars whisper dreams, Where smoke from the stove curls into the sky, There’s a little house — not big, but to my heart it seems Like a warm blanket, like my mother, like my childhood’s sigh. Through the window, sunlight spills, gentle as a dog, On the porch — a bench, worn old as memory’s trace, And in the orchard, apple trees stand tall and long — Their fruit, like sweet smiles, shining in grace. Chorus: Oh, little house in the village, you’re my quiet place, Where time moves slower than the ticking hands. No rush, no rings, no frantic pace — Just my soul breathing, coming back to life again. Through fog and snow, through years that fade, I’ll return to you — my little house in the village. Verse 2: On the wall, a clock that stopped long ago, Still smells of linden, honey, dust, and days gone by. Grandma sings, like in a fairy tale, Of nightingales and spring that never dies. The neighbor, old, with whiskers like a bush, Says, “Snow’s coming — time to stack the wood.” And I just sit, and listen — calm, no rush — As the world doesn’t hurry, doesn’t curse. Chorus: Oh, little house in the village, you’re my quiet place, Where time moves slower than the ticking hands. No rush, no rings, no frantic pace — Just my soul breathing, coming back to life again. Through fog and snow, through years that fade, I’ll return to you — my little house in the village. Bridge: In the city — concrete, screens, and noise, Here — wind, birdsong, falling leaves. I don’t seek fame or glory’s voice — Just silence, bread, and sunset’s gentle ease. Final Chorus (softly, fading on one chord): Little house in the village… you’re my place… Where time moves slower… where my soul finds grace… I’ll return to you… my little house… …in the village.
“Little House in the Village” (Melody: Soft, folk-romantic, in the style of Bulat Okudzhava or Lev Leshchenko) Verse 1: Beyond the river, where poplars whisper dreams, Where smoke from the stove curls into the sky, There’s a little house — not big, but to my heart it seems Like a warm blanket, like my mother, like my childhood’s sigh. Through the window, sunlight spills, gentle as a dog, On the porch — a bench, worn old as memory’s trace, And in the orchard, apple trees stand tall and long — Their fruit, like sweet smiles, shining in grace. Chorus: Oh, little house in the village, you’re my quiet place, Where time moves slower than the ticking hands. No rush, no rings, no frantic pace — Just my soul breathing, coming back to life again. Through fog and snow, through years that fade, I’ll return to you — my little house in the village. Verse 2: On the wall, a clock that stopped long ago, Still smells of linden, honey, dust, and days gone by. Grandma sings, like in a fairy tale, Of nightingales and spring that never dies. The neighbor, old, with whiskers like a bush, Says, “Snow’s coming — time to stack the wood.” And I just sit, and listen — calm, no rush — As the world doesn’t hurry, doesn’t curse. Chorus: Oh, little house in the village, you’re my quiet place, Where time moves slower than the ticking hands. No rush, no rings, no frantic pace — Just my soul breathing, coming back to life again. Through fog and snow, through years that fade, I’ll return to you — my little house in the village. Bridge: In the city — concrete, screens, and noise, Here — wind, birdsong, falling leaves. I don’t seek fame or glory’s voice — Just silence, bread, and sunset’s gentle ease. Final Chorus (softly, fading on one chord): Little house in the village… you’re my place… Where time moves slower… where my soul finds grace… I’ll return to you… my little house… …in the village.