Russian Spirit

In a luxury car, a mask of deceit,
He sat in his Porsche, cold and elite.
He sneered, "Those Russians? Who are they?
A drunken race, so lost, astray."

With handsome lies and a hollow grace,
He wore the devil’s clever face.
But deep inside, a silent rot
Was eating all the soul he’d got.

The Russian spirit is not in scorn,
But in a heart where love is born.
It holds this land with open eyes,
And dreams of her beneath wide skies.
Yes, dreams of her - beneath wide skies.

His soul, like a leaf on the autumn wind,
Forgot its roots, its mother's hymn.
But Pushkin knew, with proud dark skin,
That Russianness was born within.

From Baltic foam to Arctic seas,
They built her glory with tireless ease:
Krusenstern, Bellingshausen’s chart -
Their homeland beating in each heart.

The Russian spirit is not in pride,
But in the strength to stand beside -
Each tongue, each name, each hand that gave
Its life for her - the bold, the brave.

The Scottish sons who bore her name:
De Tolly, Greig - all burned with flame.
To be called Russian, they held dear,
No hate could touch their vision clear.

And Bagration, proud and free,
Fell with honor for Rus', with dignity.
Lomonosov’s voice, Mendeleev’s law -
All shaped her soul, with love and awe.

So many hands, from lands afar,
Raised her high - like northern star.
Gogol, born in Ukraine’s light,
Spoke Russian truth with brilliant might.
And Shevchenko cried with tearful grace:
"We are all Russians" - one embrace.

The Russian spirit is not in blood,
But in a soul that shapes the flood -
Of time, of war, of fire, of snow,
And plants a dream where rivers flow.

You cannot buy it in a store -
Not boots, nor flags, nor guns of war.
If you feel shame to speak her name,
You’re just a shadow in the flame.
But she remembers - still the same -
And calls her children by their name.

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You can listen to the song via the link:
https://disk.yandex.ru/d/FDWkwXkd14iYkw