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.

In

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.

Petrogradia:

This life, this time, routinely

Wanting more and needing less

These roads, and cobbles, matching clothes

And knowledge

That

In the beautiful streets of Petrograd

The night falls as fast as freedom.