In colds, in colds from inhabited places We are called in by other cities. Whether itís Minsk, whether itís Brest... In colds, in colds. Hot in vain, not in vain from native poplars Hew places are luring us, As though, we would be happier there. Not in vain, not in vain. No matter how warm it is at home, we donít have enough Of new encounters and new friends. As if there is trouble with them, As if itís warmer with them. No matter how good we can feel sometimes, We are all returning home. Where is our lucky star? Maybe here, maybe there.
© Nathan Mer. Translation, 1991