I breathed in the cold blues
And exhaled the white mist,
That was joining the clouds in their number.
The snow crunched under hooves,
Then fell still beside me,
While the snowdrifts all beckoned for slumber.

And the sadness rang out, as it sang in a sorrowful ballad
Of a coachman who froze to his death in a far-away steppe.
He was put down to sleep by the sun that stayed yellow and pallid;
There was no one to say, "You must move, stay awake!" and he slept.

Snow has buried the land,
Hiding everything deep.
We kept crawling across this white splendor.
Lord, please lend me your hand,
Let me not fall asleep,
Do not let me seek solace in languor!

But that coachmen, a fool, he relinquished his whip and his forces,
And he mentioned Christ’s name, flabbergasted by infinite snows.
He could warm himself up just a little by whipping his horses,
But he pitied them all, and - alas - in his kindness, he froze.

My reflection of sorts
Came distorted by ice.
I was startled - it’s high time to perish!
Best to cut my life short,
For I’m knee-deep in vice,
There’s nothing for me left to cherish!

Who can stand such a cold! As the blizzards keep moaning and singing,
I must dive under ice, by myself - for it is for the best.
Steam is fleeing my mouth, that’s my soul is deserting my being.
When it leaves all the way, bury me, take the knife from my chest!

Snow has blanketed the earth,
My Rus’s hidden for leagues,
It falls gently, it beckons and teases.
The drunk coachman drives forth,
Whipping up his good steeds,
While the sober one gives up and freezes.