The Earth is not big, even tiny, yet 
the whistling and playful fate I have met. 
It took me a day, just a winter day 
to flee my old house, gloomy and gray, 
where voices sounded harsh and rough 
about Gulag and breathing was tough. 
I bounced away and now I see 
the ocean waves, no harbor and sea. 
It is not my motherland, I am barefoot. 
It is not my motherland, no air, no food. 
I needed a little and I got a bite, 
a roof and a desk, so I can write. 
Here's the song of my motherland. 
Singing the tune after it I went.