To the cold, to the cold -
Far from where we know best,
As we find alien cities gain a hold.
Could be Minsk, could be Brest.
To the cold, to the cold.

Not for nothing at all
We leave our own poplar trees,
When we hear these hard cities call -
As if there’s more there to please.
Not for nothing at all.

Though were warm here at home
We can never find rest:
For new thrills and new friends we roam -
As if we’re in distress,
As if it’s warmer than home.

And of course we will share
Great times when we’re far.
But we’ll always come home, I swear.
Where then is our true star?
Maybe here, maybe there.