Как медь умела петь
            В монастыре далече!
            Ах, как пылала медь,
            Обняв крутые плечи!
            Звенели трензеля,
            Летели кони споро
            От белых стен Кремля
            До белых скал Босфора.
            Зачем во цвете лет,
            Познавший толк в уставе,
            Не в тот пошел я цвет,
            На масть не ту поставил?
            Могил полны поля,
            Витает синий порох
            От белых стен Кремля
            До белых скал Босфора.
            Не лучше ли с ЧеКой
            Мне было бы спознаться,
            К родной земле щекой
            В последний раз прижаться,
            Стать звоном ковыля
            Среди степного сора
            Меж белых стен Кремля
            И белых скал Босфора...
            1971            

Oh how could metal sing,
In catatonic cyclone,
Oh how could the wings ring
In decompression cycle

The silver horses flying,
From Moscow in the rain,
To the New York, undying.

Assured of the game,
I have been caught in lying

And who is left to blame?
The world is in denial
And who's is to proclaim...
The coming of last trial.

And why in my best years,
Knowing the price of dollar
And why did when I could,
I bet on the wrong color

The fields are filled with graves,
The sun won't rise tomorrow
Above the ocean waves....
From Moscow, seized in frost
To the New York in sorrow.

And maybe it is time,
For me to meet my maker
And hug the frozen thyme
The sunrise will not wake er'

Become the blades of grass,
From mountains of Norway
Become the crystal glass
To sands of Georgian Bay

To be one with the rain,
And breath of the leaf's pores
In droplet's heart, last rainbow
The song bird's final chorus

Between the shores of Spain
And the cliffs of Bosphorus 
From Moscow's walls arcane
To New York, lost in forests.