Letters

In nineteenth-century Russia, we write letters
We write letters
We put down in writing
What is happening in our minds
Once it’s on the paper, we feel better
We feel better
It’s like some kind of clarity
When the letter’s done and signed
Dear Andrey
Dear old friend
How goes the war?
Do we march on the French splendidly?
Do our cannons crack and cry?
Do our bullets whistle and sing?
Does the air reek with smoke?
I wish I were there
With death at my heels
Dolokhov is recovering
He will be all right, the good man
And Natasha is in town
Your bride to be, so full of life and mischief
I should visit
I hear she is more beautiful than ever
How I envy you and your happiness
Here at home I drink and read and drink and read and drink
But I think I’ve finally found it
What my heart has needed
For I’ve been studying the Kabal
And I’ve calculated the number of the beast
It is Napoleon!
Six hundred three score and six
And I will kill him one day
He’s no great man
None of us are great men
We’re caught in the wave of history
Nothing matters
Everything matters
It’s all the same
Oh, if only I could not see «it»
This dreadful, terrible «it»
In nineteenth-century Russia, we write letters
We write letters
We put down in writing
What is happening in our minds
Dear Andrey—
What more can I write
After all that has happened?
What am I to do if I love him and the other one too?
Must I break it off?
These terrible questions
I see nothing but the candle in the mirror
No visions of the future
So lost and alone
And what of Princess Mary?
Dear Natasha
I am in deep despair at the misunderstanding there is between us
Whatever my father’s feelings might be
I beg you to believe that I cannot help loving you
He is a tired old man and must be forgiven
Please, come see us again
Dear Princess Mary—
Oh, what am I to write!
How do I choose?
What do I do?
I shall never be happy again
These terrible questions
I’m so alone here
So alone in here
And I see nothing
I see nothing but the candle in the mirror
No visions of the future
So lost and alone
In nineteenth-century Russia, we write letters
We write letters
We put down in writing
What is happening in our minds
Dear Natalie
A love letter
A love letter
A love letter
A letter from him, from the man that I love
A letter which I composed
A love letter
A love letter…
Natalie, Natalie, Natalie
I must love you or die
Natalie, Natalie, Natalie
If you love me, say yes
And I will come and steal you away
Steal you out of the dark
Natalie, Natalie, Natalie
I want nothing more
Natalie, Natalie, Natalie
I must love you or die
Natalie, Natalie, Natalie
If you love me, say yes
And I will come and steal you away
Steal you out of the dark
Natalie, Natalie, Natalie
I want nothing more
Just say yes
Just say yes
Just say yes
Yes, yes, I love him
How else could I have his letter in my hand?
I read it twenty times
Thirty times, forty times!
Each and every word
I love him, I love him