I admit, I admit I don't have a good voice,

All what I sing, what I sing is all terrible noise.

So your larks, your doves, your sparrows went away,

There leaves nothing but a tree, sad and gray.

But here, here I must and shall loudly sing,

Even on every tree stays no a single wing.

Not for the right of a nice day, on which you hear the birdcalls, on which you've already been——

But for something perhaps you cannot imagine at the moment,

For the right you've never thought, for the right you've never seen.