He was blue-eyed and red-haired
(Like gunpowder during the game!),
Crafty and affectionate. We are
Two young blond sisters.
Oh night fell on the rocks,
Steaming over the sea fire,
And tend Volodya tired
Head shoulders sisters.
A sister too quarrel in malice:
“is he – my!” – “Not – he's mine!” – “why did?”
Volodya decides: “you both!
You – wives, I – Turk, Your husband”.
forgotten, that dresses hole,
What's new suit wrinkled.
As tempting rock-cheese!
How joyful noise pini!
Scraps some tunes
And the whisper of a dream: “Not, he's mine!”
– “Home! Asya, Musia, Volodya!”
– Not, better fire, than home!
Over the cliff clinging skirt,
From stones torn pocket.
we smoke – as adults – tube,
we – the thieves, and he Ataman.
Well, how to remember without pain,
Companion of so many victories?
Now we are big and Bole
Not the boys in skirts, – Oh no!
But the memory of it, we are carrying
A lifetime. Why?
– I was ten years, her eight,
Eleven exactly it.