From the cycle `From the peasant poetry`
Is it my side side
Hot stripe.
Only the forest yes salting
Yes the river scythe...

The old church languishes
Throwing a cross into the clouds.
And sick cuckoo
Does not fly from sad places.

For you my side
In the flood every year
With a pillow and knapsacks
Praying sweat pours.

Faces are dusty tanned
Eyelids gnawed out the distance
And dug into a thin body
Save the meek sadness.