[All:]
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

[Pierre:]
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"

[All:]
In nineteenth-century Russia, we write letters
We write letters
We put down in writing
What is happening in our minds

[Natasha:]
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

[Natasha