I love the fatherland, but strange love!
Will not win her mind my.
our glory, bought with blood,
Neither the full confidence proud rest,
Neither the dark antiques cherished legends
Do not stir me gratifying of dream.
But I love - for what, I do not know myself -
Her cold steppes of silence,
Her boundless forests quivering,
Spills its rivers, like seas;
Country by love to ride in the cart
AND, eyes slowly impaling night shadow,
Meet at the sides, sighing about accommodation,
Trembling lights sad villages.
I like the smoke of burning stubble,
In the steppes nochuyuschyy convoy
And on the hill amid the yellow cornfields
Chetu beleyuschyh march.
With joy many unfamiliar
I see a full barn,
With carved window shutters;
And in the feast, dewy evening,
Watch until midnight ready
On the dance with stamping and whistling
Under the voices of drunken peasants.