I love my homeland, but with a strange love!
My mind will not defeat her.
No glory, blood-bought,
No peace of proud confidence,
Neither dark antiquity cherished traditions
Do not stir up a pleasant dream in me.
But I love - why, I don't know myself -
Her steppes are cold silence,
Its endless forests ripple,
The floods of her rivers, like the seas;
I like to ride in a cart on a country road
AND, a slow gaze piercing the night shadow,
To meet on the sides, sighing for an overnight stay,
The quivering lights of the sad villages.
I love the smoke of the burnt harvest,
A night convoy in the steppe
And on a hill in the middle of a yellow cornfield
A pair of whitening birches.
With joy to many unfamiliar
I see a complete threshing floor,
And on holiday, dewy evening,
Watch until midnight ready
To the dance with stamping and whistling
Under the voices of drunken peasants.