What am I,
When we are marching to the workplace,
Bitter, silent and cold?
Am I a man,
Or am I just another lump of flesh?
My Kolyma, my Norilsk,
This place is my Vorkuta
And here I remain,
Unwillingly,
Waiting for the moment
When we shall break free,
But sometimes I feel that I shall spend my life
Fettered
And working
In my Vorkuta
And when this passes over me
I weep with everything I am
And I wonder,
Am I still a man?
Am I still a human?
What will happen when I escape from here?