Текст песни А.Ахматова - Не с теми я, кто бросил землю...

Not with those who threw the earth
At the mercy of the enemy.
I do not listen to their crude flattery,
I will not give them my songs.

But the exile is always pathetic for me,
As a prisoner, as a patient.
Dark is your road, stranger,
The wormwood smells of alien bread.

And here, in the deaf child of the fire
The rest of my youth is ruining,
We are not a single strike
Do not reject from yourself.

And we know that in assessing the late
Every hour will be justified;
But in the world there are no people who are more slobbering,
Arrogant and simpler than us.
1922