Such a watery comfortless moonity
And the grief of the endless vast plains -
That were things, which I saw in my frisky youth,
Which, though loving, I cursed, not one, say.
Pussy-willows whither along the road,
And telega's wheels (* - a cart) are singing songs...
Not at any price I would be longing
To hear it for another time more.
I became so indifferent to huts,
I disfavoured the fire of hearth,
Even the spring apple blizzard I disliked
All because of the field's empty sight.
I'm fond of the other things now...
In that hectric moon light I discern
Through the stone and steel such material
All the power of native land.
The field Russia! Stop it to plough
Over the furrows of that barren plain!
It is hard to see poverty now
To your birches, to poplars abele.
I don't know, what it'll be with me...
May be I'm not merit to new,
But I'd like to see the steel, intelligent
All my Russia, though today poor.
Listening to the bark of the engines
In a quantity of snowstorms,
Not at any price I'd like to hear
That telega's wheels' old squeaking song.
1925