The streets are gray,
(they always are)
in December; at least,
uniformed like us
pinned with bits of litter
that blew here in the wind;
for the wind brings us many surprises
and no resistance.
The beautiful streets of Petrograd
The snow burns as hot as fire
And the sun freezes all confusion.
Our wages weigh our pockets down
With greed with want with more:
And every ruble needs another.
This life, this time, routinely
Wanting more and needing less
These roads, and cobbles, matching clothes
In the beautiful streets of Petrograd
The night falls as fast as freedom.