Loneliness is my temple of the egoist,
You have hundreds, maybe even 300 of them,
And I have one, like a crowded attic,
Crammed to the ceiling, but infinitely modest.
Its walls, like a fortress, protect me from meetings
Whether accidental or not, it's not yet evening
And I can't say for sure
From whom and when I will run away
To my loneliness, to my temple of the egoist,
Of which you have hundreds, maybe even three hundred.
I would rather bury myself among dozens of books
At least for one minute, for one moment
To hide under your invisible blanket
And this is happiness! Maybe this is not enough
For those who live among plans and meetings,
Who writes a speech from morning to evening
Confessions about the low or the high,
To say a little or even a lot,
And I live in the temple of the egoist,
Like you have a hundred, maybe even three hundred,
But you know what, people with plans,
I don't think we're gonna be clansmen
You're social and I'm a monarchist
In a temple of a hundred, maybe even three hundred.

Loneliness is my temple of the egoist, You have hundreds, maybe even 300 of them, And I have one, like a crowded attic, Crammed to the ceiling, but infinitely modest. Its walls, like a fortress, protect me from meetings Whether accidental or not, it's not yet evening And I can't say for sure From whom and when I will run away To my loneliness, to my temple of the egoist, Of which you have hundreds, maybe even three hundred. I would rather bury myself among dozens of books At least for one minute, for one moment To hide under your invisible blanket And this is happiness! Maybe this is not enough For those who live among plans and meetings, Who writes a speech from morning to evening Confessions about the low or the high, To say a little or even a lot, And I live in the temple of the egoist, Like you have a hundred, maybe even three hundred, But you know what, people with plans, I don't think we're gonna be clansmen You're social and I'm a monarchist In a temple of a hundred, maybe even three hundred.