Wind whistles through the steep fence
hides in the grass
a drunk and a thief
I'll end my days
the light sinking in red hills
shows me the path
I'm not the only one on it
not the only one
plowed Russia stretches away
grass and then snow
no matter what part I'd come from
our cross Is the same
I believe in my secret hour
as in icons not painted by hands
like a tramp who sleeps back of a fence
it will rise my inviolate Saviour
but through the blue tattered fogs
of unconfessed rivers
I may pass with a drunken smile
never knowing Him
no tear lighting up on my lashes
to break my dream
joy like a blue dove
dropping into the dark
sadness resuming
its vindictive song
but may the wind on my grave
dance like a peasant in spring