Our mothers used to frighten us, their darlings:
"Siberia is weeping fór you, kids," - they used to say.
They scolded us unkindly, but they hardly
Desired their children such a fate one day.

But we went there for nothing, for a quarter, with God willing,
By-passing, breaking through, and gliding in the beam like dust.
To what new rapids will the road be leading?
Into what crevice shall I shout at last?

We’ll find our North without a compass, promptly.
We’ve memorized our mothers’ warnings as the basic law.
The wicked wind blows flesh off bones quite fondly,
Our skeletons enjoy it even more.

The pleas and moans won’t last there altogether,
The blizzard quickly carries them away into the dark.
Our words and tears stay frozen in this weather,
So only barbs and bullets hit their mark.

And we went there for nothing, for a quarter, with God willing,
By-passing, breaking through, and gliding in the beam like dust.
To what new rapids will the road be leading?
Into what crevice shall I shout at last?

The vigil for my soul could not sound better,
The day and snow are whiter yet, and blacker is the night.
This permafrost will keep my corpse forever,
Preserving it like good formaldehyde.

I am not fond of any recollections,
But if our fate has brought us here, you’ll have to take a look:
We died right here, our final destination,
Where dozers raked us with their blades and hooks.

And we went there for nothing, for a quarter, with God willing,
By-passing, breaking through, and gliding in the beam like dust.
To what new rapids will the road be leading?
Into what crevice shall I shout at last?

To write it all - it’s way too much for paper;
This too shall pass, and memories mean nothing in the end.
Our bones were picked by every dredge and grader,
It means we had the gold in us, my friend!

We went through this for nothing, for a quarter, with God willing,
By-passing, breaking through, and gliding in the beam like dust.
To what new rapids will the road be leading?
Into what crevice shall I shout at last?