Apparently, that winter this time is kind – no frost, soft snow is soaring. And through the night at building-sites of Khanti-Mansijsk* lights are burning.
The houses’ fronts rise to the height above the middle-Russian bustle, and flies my different-storey city over the gloomy landscape fast.
Some happy day-again becomes as great as was my dear land. Yet for the present, blue-eyed Tajiks build for us happiness on the sand.
Not knowing Russian, one and all – they neither citizens, nor vagrants – in an unhurried awkward way the lads are laying bricks for us…
The brains’ve been long ago exhausted… And now it came to lack of hands… When will the God show us his favor – and set us free of torments on the lands?
The everlasting laws of Nature – they can be cancelled in no ways. Apparently, some other nations will settle on the Russian space.
The people’s fate is mostly doleful, We’ll go – and carry our guilt. And the unknown words and speeches will coarsely break the churches’ still.