Machines are laughing in my face,
I'm opening windows in the soul.
Perhaps, I was hanged in disgrace...
And, may be, upon the telegraph pole.

Machines do not throw a shadow.
...Ungrateful children of the human race...
I'll shelter myself under a barrow.
Machines are laughing in my face.

We divinified town lands.
This city had not been heaven-born,
Underground giants of our by-ends.
Our Temple, be never lorn!

But by means of secret mutations
(It sticks now out a mile),
Emiting a knack of electrovibrations
By the irresistible smile,
The Sunny Son will see the light.
The Sunny Son will see his light.