Белое безмолвие [Beloe bazmolvie] [English translation]

For all years and centuries and epochs,

Everyone rushes to the warmth, away from frost and storms.

Why then, do these birds fly north

When they're supposed to only fly south?

They don't need glory or grandeur.

The ice will end beneath their wings,

And they'll find their birdly happiness,

Like a reward for their reckless flight.

Why couldn't we just live, why couldn't we sleep?

What caused us to fly out into the endless sky?

We have yet to see the Northern Lights,

For they're rare and highly sought after.

Silence. Only the seagulls flash like lightning

And eat out emptiness from our hands.

But our reward for all of this quietude

Will definitely be the sound we seek.

For so long we have dreamed only in white,

For the snows have covered all other shades.

This whiteness made us blind so long ago,

But the dark strip of land ahead will make us see.

Our throats will be released from their silence,

And our tiredness will melt away like a shadow.

And the fruit of a night of desperation

Will be an eternal polar day.

The north, with freedom and hope, is a land without end;

Its snows are pure, like a long life without lies.

The carrion crows will not peck out our eyes,

For the north does not tolerate carrion crows.

Those who didn't believe in ill-fated prophecies,

And who didn't waste time resting in the snow-

Those people, as a reward for their solitude

Will definitely meet someone to love in life.

• Artist:Vladimir Vysotsky