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!
