| On the Rasvumchorr Plateau…
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| (Yu. Vizbor)
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| Spring does not come to the Rasvumchorr plateau,
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| Not the Rasvumchorr plateau, all snow and snow,
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| All winter yes winter, all the winds are a mess,
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| Eighteen guys, three weeks of snowstorm.
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| We are sitting at the table, smoking strong tobacco.
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| In an hour we will climb out onto the roof of the Khibiny
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| And break through the howl, wade through the darkness,
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| Head resting on the curse of the blizzard.
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| And while we are sitting at the wooden table,
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| Smokes senior mechanic metropolitan "Dukat",
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| Brought here through a cruel cyclone
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| In two pockets of a Moscow jacket.
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| He sits and is sad for no one knows what,
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| My dearest mechanic, head of the roads.
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| In an hour he will fight with the Rasvumchorr plateau,
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| Walking ahead of the tractors on the road.
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| Because the road of misfortune is full
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| And the bulldozer needs a man's shoulder
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| Because spring does not come here -
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| To the back of the Khibiny, on the Rasvumchorr plateau.
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| To this day, to this day
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| We are healthy as hell, we have grub and tobacco,
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| We are not yet tired of helping out friends,
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| We are not yet accustomed to sitting on beans.
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| We are eighteen healthy men,
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| Bandaged with snow, worn by fate, -
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| Eighteen separations, eighteen torments,
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| Eighteen hopes for the blue dawn.
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| What do you dream, girls, in unknown dreams?
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| If snow and separation, then this is not a dream ...
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| Spring does not come to the Rasvumchorr plateau -
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| We go through a blizzard, we bring hope. |