But there ’re, somewhere, the simple life and light,
Warm, gay and absolutely clear…
There, speaks a neighbor through the fences, light,
With a sweet girl, and only bees can hear –
The gentlest talking of this kind.
But here we live – the solemn ones and toilsome –
And honor rites of our meetings, sad,
When our speech, just as a bud to blossom,
Is cut by wind, the cold and mad.
But we shall never seek a substitution
For this grand city – our woe and prize –
The widest rivers’ ever glaring ice,
The gloomy gardens, hidden from beams sun’s
And the Muse voice’s slim illusion.
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