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- A whisper from a time long past,
The spindle of fate, ever cast.
This place, a crossroads, hard to miss,
Where lives and journeys found their bliss.
The potter saw the clay so fine, The smith declared,
"This land is mine!" The shepherdess, with joyful sigh,
"The Oka flows beneath the sky, With forests wide and fields of green, And banks, a most enchanting scene!"
But then, a sweet and smoky haze,
A pot of broth, in simple days.
Not guests arrived, but foes drew near,
Their greedy eyes, a sign of fear.
They licked their lips, and met their doom,
Consumed by the encroaching gloom.
Yes, it was so, so long ago,
The spindle of fate, it made things flow.
This place, a turning point for all,
Where paths converged, at destiny's call.
Beneath skies of azure, domes ascend,
A fortress wall, its strength will lend.
And three great rivers, in embrace,
Hold our dear homeland, in this place,
Our Kolomna, cherished, strong,
Where we belong, and have belonged.
Though winds may blow and far you roam,
You'll find your way, you'll find your home.
Just hold it close, and don't forget,
Your native land, so loved, so met.