Out-up is a crescent; down, a wind is blowing.
Settling poplar wool is silvery and glowing.
Far 'talianka sobbing, solitary descant,
Is so sweetly homey and so sadly distant.
Crafty runs now giggle, now burst out crying.
Where are you, my linden? Age ol' mine, where are you?
Once, I also used to go to see a honey,
Fanning out 'talianka, in the morn on Sunday.
Only I mean nothing to that honey these days.
Have to laugh and cry to someone else's ditties.