Those Born In Obscure Times

Those born in obscure

Do not remember their way.

We, children of Russia's frightful

Cannot forget a thing.

Incinerating years!, do you bring tidings of madness or of hope?

The days of war, the days of

Have left a bloody sheen on our faces.

There is a muteness - the tocsin

Has made us close our lips.

In our hearts, once so ardent,

There is a fateful emptiness.

Let the croaking

Take flight above our deathbed - O Lord,

O Lord, may those more worthy than us,

Behold Thy kingdom!