Те же росы, откосы, туманы, Над бурьянами рдяный...

The same dews, slopes, fogs,
A bright sunrise over the weeds,
The chilling rustle of the glade
Starving, poor people;

And in the open, in the wild - bondage;
And our harsh leaden land
It throws us from a cold field -
Sends us a cry: "Die -

Like everyone else dies ... "You can't breathe,
Do not hear the deadly threats: -
You hear desperate exclamations
And sobs, and complaints, and tears.

The wind carries the same exclamations;
The same flocks of unfulfilled deaths
They mow over the slopes with scythes,
People are mowed over the slopes.

Fatal land, icy,
Cursed by an iron fate -
Mother Russia, oh wicked homeland,
Who made such a joke on you?

A. Bely. Homeland