To the cold, to the cold, We are knocked off our perch, As new cities have issued their call. Could be Minsk, could be Brest... To the cold, to the cold... Not in vain, not in vain We are driven today From home poplars to perils abroad. Is it better away? Not in vain, not in vain... Though in comfort and well, In warm homes we are stuck, But we crave for new meetings, new friends. As if we are bad luck, As if warmth is with them... Matters little, it seems, How we thrive overseas, We will have to return to our place. Where to look for our star? Maybe near, maybe far...
Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2020