The air is stale with thunder what will happen now
my throat contracting and my zest for life is spinning
downwards - as I look for omens, can I trust the vows
those prophetic birds of fairytales are singing

I hear Sirin, bird of gladness, and her song of lure
has trills that drills my faith out of it’s ease
Alkonost, a bird who’s brooding sorrow and pain
has a message that’s splitting my peace

Grief and joy have now begun
reverberating what’s in store
little bird of hope named Gamajun
it’s me she’s singing for

All over the universe there are bells that chime
a belfryskylined coppersign
is it sadness, is it madness, is it joy
cupolas of the russians are decked with gold
that our Maker should watch us more often

In the middel of the fairytale of this eternal land
an enigma beyond the means of man
Land of mine where people live in poverty and sham
under big blue skies with ample gifts from nature’s hand

My precious horses sink down belly-deep
stuck in the mud of fat and yellow falseness
and yet they carry on so I can see
the oozing, stinking realm arise from slumber

The lunar sickle baptized me
but it makes a tricky mate
Gamajun, can I trust you hopefully
to give me comfort, boost my faith

I shall keep on polishing my weary soul
until it’s reeking, until it bleeds
until it’s shining out of fury, out of joy
and I shall mend my ragged clothes with gold
that my Maker shall watch me more often