Russia And the sad winds of the steppe Sing about you And the sad winds of the steppe Sing about you There is no way, no trace On the plains, on the plains Without snow It's not time to go to the native shrines To hear the native voices It's not time to go to the native shrines To hear the native voices The snow has covered, covered, buried All the sacred, native thunders You are a blind, cruel force You are like death, not living snow You are a blind, cruel force You are like death, not living snow Russia has covered you with snow And sprinkled you with gray dust And the sad winds of the steppe Sing about you And the sad winds of the steppe Sing about you And the sad winds of the steppe