Песенка об Арбате [Pesenka ob Arbatie] [English translation]

You still flow, river-like.

But how strange's the name of yours!

And your even asphalt is like water clear.

Oh, Arbat, my Arbat, my vocation's highs and lows,

You are joy of my heart, though my woes are near.

Those who walk by your way,

No one famous, no one grand,

Their boots' soles loudly tap, as they hurry past.

Oh, Arbat, my Arbat, my religion's guiding hand,

My feet placed over your cobbled paths so vast.

So's to help cure your love

No pill ever can be found,

Forty thousand streets love one might at once,

Oh, Arbat, my Arbat, motherland to which I'm bound,

And to reach where you end, there is not a chance!