Siberia of my being

Yearning for the beautiful life,

I am singing the song of mine,

it's a dirge, the cherry one,

a bleak fire of happiness caressing my soul,

it's cool enough to observe the Moon,

fresh air, smiling stars and freezing cries.

There's minus 273.5 degrees in the Siberia of my being,

all my hearts stopped stumping,

Aurora Polaris – even the Sun itself weeps:

'the nightingale will live no more!'

Can any life be wonderful?

The tears of bitterness are sweeter than amber honey.

A rainbow is too miraculous to be beheld by my eyes,

breezing thoughts of the lion with the broken wings,

silver dew on gloomy butterflies,

seeking love on the Pluto,

finding a quenching candle,

I blew it out.