Frozen in past, this land and I lie so bleak
The wilderness of history, yet unable to speak
From the mother’s womb, both born of maternity
My life has been short, not of your eternity
Yet I can compare, for my time now lies in the past
Where age has left us with memories so vast
Cold we are, but neither chooses to be heartless
You carved in beauty, yet my palette seems artless
But as I look upon you I can see my own soul
A swirling cold emptiness with a long forgotten goal

Bitter winds sweep across lacking care and affection
Where both our futures seem devoid of direction
Are the ghosts that haunt us such differing strangers?
For in the end do we both not court our own dangers?
Barren, barren, we would cry in our bitter solitude
Yet does our richness not deserve one single platitude
Loneliness, loneliness, can ever be our only true friend
But I will pass as you continue until the final end
Siberia, Siberia, I would embrace your cold arms
For in both our histories none has grasped our charms


Neither of us blooms, we are the forgotten spiraea
I find myself continuing to languish with Siberia