Downfalling and rising up again,
As one small ship, rocking on wild waves,
An old sharmanka (* in russian it's a barrel organ), playing a melancholy,
Came from a depth of yard like a present.
And in a small distance to tears hard
I heard a little voice, clear and perfect,
Of crazy note, though of happy kind,
That slightly heard, but precise note.
But let we all are ceized by the confusion
With a discrepancy of the tight bellows
Before the deadly flood all want to live surely.
And there's no any other truth in world.
All the contrivances and all the tricks
Couldn't give us anything instead of love...
I pulled a hundred time the trigger,
But only the nightingales outflied...
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