8200 [English translation]

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.