Bulat Okudzhava

Like a river you pour, a strange appellation 
And the asphalt's transparent, just like river flows.
Ah Arbat my Arbat! You are my vocation.
You're my happiness and you are my woe.

Your crosswalks - with small-time people they are smidgeoned:
They are hurrying to work and stomping their heels.
Ah Arbat my Arbat! You are my religion.
All your ramparts are there lying under me.

Of your love I cannot be cured, I understand
Though forty thousand other roads I may adore.
Ah Arbat my Arbat! You are my Fatherland,
And I cant reach your end forevermore.