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, ith 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