I’m tired of living in my land with boring fields and buckwheat fragrant, I’ll leave my home for ever, and begin the life of thief and vagrant. I’ll walk through silver curls of life in search of miserable dwelling. My dearest friend will whet his knife on me. The reason? There’s no telling. The winding yellow road will go across the sunlit field of flowers, the girl whose name I cherish so will turn me out of her house. I will return back home to live and see the others feeling happy, I’ll hang myself upon my sleeve, on a green evening it will happen. The silky willows by the fence qill bend their tops low down, gently, to dogs’ barking, by my friends, unwashed, I will be buried plainly. The moon will float up in the sky dropping the oars into the water… As ever, Russia will get by and dance and weep in every quarter.