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....Read more

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.

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