Description

My thoughts, my thoughts, Woe is me with you! Why are they on paper Sad rows? .. Why didn't the wind blow you away? In the steppe, like sawdust? Why didn't you sleep soundly, How is your child? ... For brown eyes, For black eyebrows The heart was torn, laughed, Poured out his tongue, Poured, as skillfully, On dark nights, For a cherry orchard green, For the grace of the maiden For steppes and mounds