In these miniature Russian colonies
Those who are hiding from lawlessness
Their sinful bodies and souls,
Interests are so pitiful
Feelings vicious and hypocritical:
They seek only food and warmth.

They all eat - it is only appropriate,
And the warmth in our time is important too,
Nobody will argue with that.
But apart from the warmth and the victuals
There are needs mental and spiritual,
Besides breakfast and wood and coat.

There is theater, symphony and poems,
There are paintings, and if in Estonia
There is no such delight,
My compatriots, Russian terribly,
Its your fault that you see things narrowly,
And you lose your hearing and sight.

If youll find nothing like this within this land
And this village except the wheat bread,
Maybe at nights we will perform
Shows of music and poems, and vocalists
We will give majestic performances
And perhaps we will dance until dawn.

Maybe well declaim aloud Gogols thought
(Fess up: you did not read a lot
Of his work in your life, dear friends).
Maybe take something from Nekrasov
And to know travels of Hatteras, if
Nietzsche, for one, the powers forbid.

But what are such pursuits to you
Calling nothing but curses out of you
Better revelry, maps and food!
Better gossip, intrigue and constant complaints
That for long the army should have advanced
For your sake to retake Petrograd.