Trucks and gullies, barns and sheds,
crooked huts, wooden barracks*.
We are far from Europe – then
it'll go worse than in Iraq.
We are selling crude oil, gas,
while here and there we are staying in darkness.
Who, may I ask, will care about us?
From whom we may today await an answer?
The snows are all around. In the taiga’s realm
there sets in suddenly such boundless quiet,
that you can hear well the river’s stream,
that’s flowing under ice, worn-out.