Once, when the dreams would bloom - the times were those -
In peoples hearts, transparent and aflame,
How fresh, how beautiful have been the roses
Of my love, of my spring, and of my fame!

The years have passed, many a tear flows -
The country and its people all are lost.
How fresh, how beautiful are now the roses
Of memories of my delightful past!

But days go by, and thunders in repose.
Russia is seeking pathways to go home.
How fresh, how beautiful will be the roses
That my country will throw upon my tomb!