Eighty two hundred miles1 of empty space,
Yet for you and me there's no place to spend the night.
I would be joyful, if I felt your grace,
If you were happy, my beloved motherland.
I would be joyful, but something ain't right,
Here it's crimson where all others have blue;
Silver cut the wind: sharp scythe punctured the heart -
And then my soul like Sirin2 would soar high over you.
1. 8200 versts: approximate length of Russia's landmass2. Sirin: a mythological half-woman half-bird creature of Russian legends.