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.