My native city has no name;
the fog that shrouds it stays the same –
it’s skimmed-milk white all over.
Lips hesitate to speak out loud
of him who thrice denied his Lord,
yet counts among the holy.
And what’s my country called, you say.
Why the obsession with these names?
– The land I come from, comrade,
is where no road can lead to Rome,
and where the sky is smoke and fume,
and snow stays frozen solid.