Праздник урожая во дворце труда [Prazdnik urozhaya vo dvortse truda] [English translation]

It doesn't matter how much we sang – it was as good as if we were silent,

That's why our holy water is now dead.

The wheels of sorrow have run over us,

And here we go to the harvest festival in the workers' cultural centre.

It's time to refrain, but how do you refrain?

[How do you] leave this zone, pull the wires out of yourself?

And Rose from the State Timber Enterprise and Mary the Wedding Bird

Are dying for a ticket

For the harvest festival in the workers' cultural centre.

We know the machine is utterly broke,

We know there's no road here and never has been.

Close your eyes so you don't see a faun creeping in the field,

A star fallen from the sky is knocking at the door.

The harvest festival in the workers' cultural centre.

Black soot red as a flag,

Blown up trains among the ancient ruins,

Under the feet of the passers-by are paintings from Hermitage,

The conductor is completely deaf –

The harvest festival in the workers' cultural centre.

It doesn't matter how much we sang – it was as good as if we were silent,

That's why our holy water is now dead.

And on the starry night I will wait on the quay.

We're in the beginning yet. The harvest festival in the workers' cultural centre.

• Artist:Boris Grebenshchikov
• Album:Соль (2014)