.Un vent de Sibrie souffle sur la Bohme.
Les femmes sont en colre aux portes des moulins.
Des bords de la Volga au delta du Niemen,
Le temps s'est coul il a pass pour rien.
Puisqu'aucun dieu du ciel ne s'intresse nous,
Lnine, relve-toi, ils sont devenus fous.
Toi, Vladimir Il.
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