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.
© John Farndon + Olga Nakston. Translation, 2022
© Anthony Cable. Performance, 2022