I’m so tired of my fret,

Of yearn for buckwheat thereabout.

The tramp an’ theft –  to be my bread,

I’ll leave my hut to wander out.

I’ll tramp the curly daily light

In search of humble shabby dwelling.

The only friend I have – He might …

Might keep a knife to stub my belly.

The meadows and the road line

Are shed by spring with sparkling gold.

An’ she whose name I enshrine

Will show me off at her threshold.

The farther’s  home will take me back,

And someone’s luck – my only comfort.

A torn off sleeve – around the neck!

Eternal peace for me – to come forth.

The willow, gray as morning fogs

Will gently bow her tender crown.

And me… unwashed and sung by dogs –

They will commit me to the ground.

The moon will keep her nightly cruise,

Her  oars being dropped on lakes around.

And Russia? – She will keep the booze,

Her drunken sobs – unheard, though loud.