Chocolate night, golden fabric. By the fence, in a snowdrift, a girl sits Holds a matchbox, a homeless wretch The little flame flickers, sometimes dies out, then flares up again. Like a New Year's star in chilled hands Death seems to be taking its time, and the frost grows ever stronger. And around – not a soul, only throngs of people. Gray snow, trampled to dust by boots Our faces are colder than steel Our hands are no warmer than ice With the first match, faith in a long life will burn away. With the second, hope for paradise will burn. The heart will stop, and it won't hurt anymore. But, from the cold, until the hand freezes And while the grass is green beneath the ice In this city, love will be alive. In this city, there will be the love of the century. It will last these ages, as long as matches burn. We're almost at the bottom. Just a tiny bit left until the bottom. Our faces are colder than steel Our hands are no warmer than ice [End]
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