To the cold, to the cold, Though weve warmth and weve rest, Different towns call us still from the fold - Maybe Minsk, maybe Brest. To the cold, to the cold... Not for nought, not for nought, From the poplars of home Are we drawn to harsh climes by the thought That its more fun to roam. Not for nought, not for nought... Though its warm in our dens, Still we cant help but long To meet people and gather new friends - As though something were wrong And its better with them... Though it may be that were Doing well, going far, Well return to our homes one fine year. So then where is our star? Maybe there, maybe here...
Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2008