To the cold, to the cold,
Though we’ve warmth and we’ve rest,
Different towns call us still from the fold -
Maybe Minsk, maybe Brest.
To the cold, to the cold...

Not for nought, not for nought,
From the poplars of home
Are we drawn to harsh climes by the thought
That it’s more fun to roam.
Not for nought, not for nought...

Though it’s warm in our dens,
Still we can’t help but long
To meet people and gather new friends -
As though something were wrong
And it’s better with them...

Though it may be that we’re
Doing well, going far,
We’ll return to our homes one fine year.
So then where is our star?
Maybe there, maybe here...