My friend has moved to Magadan; Play him a fanfare, play him a fanfare. He went himself, his own free man; He wasnít sent there, he wasnít sent there. It wasnít that his luck turned bad Or done to make somebody mad; It wasnít part of some big act: He simply packed, he simply packed. If someone asked him: "Whatís it for? Why just abandon your life at random? The jails have killers by the score - Thatís where they crammed "em, thatís where they crammedí em!" Heíd shrug - "Whatever people say Thereís more in Moscow anyway" - Then pack up everything he can For Magadan, for Magadan. I wouldnít say my race is run: Iíd jump the night train like in the old days; But I wonít go to Magadan Leaving my old ways, starting a new phase. Iíll sing, my guitar on my knee, Of all the things heís going to see Of all thatís left unseen, undone, Of Magadan, of Magadan. My friend had nothing left to lose; Itís his decision, itís his decision; He wonít be beaten by the screws - Heís not in prison, heís not in prison. But God has made for me a plan... Or should I go to Magadan? And like my friend just go to ground And make no sound.
© Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2007