Journey
A road is going far
upwards to the north,
surmounting Russian bar –
drive by that host.
Through Petersburg the route –
the choice is nought
and if a passer-by says true –
the course is Vyborg.
And to a foreign part
we’re coming late.
The stars are shining hard
to foresee our fate.
The whole of Finland here
is not yet finish.
From Baltic beer –
it’s quickly vanished.
And stops in haste – oh, man,
to have a rest,
to aim at groin then
of a tremendous cat.
The roads are made of woods
and to the left – the sea
the mountains keep in hoods
all those who there can be.
The signs are everywhere
we’re taken by the view,
reindeers are pasturing there
we are stitched by their look.
The Swedish sun is watching
what we are looking for
and us who will be torturing
ahead two thousand more.
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