Текст песни Анна Андреевна Ахматова - Родная земля

And in the world there are no tearless people
Haughty and simpler than us.

In treasured cuffs we don’t wear on our chests,
We’re not writing poetry about her,
Our bitter dream, she does not rage
Doesn't seem like a promised paradise.
We do not do it in our souls
The subject of purchase and sale,
Ailment, misery, unwillingness on her,
We don’t even remember about it.
Yes, for us it's dirt on galoshes,
Yes, for us it's a crunch on our teeth.
And we grind, and knead, and crumble
That ashes of nothing.
But we lay down in it and become it,
That's why we call it so freely - ours.