Don’t sigh, my little maid,
In your garden barwēnok will not fade.
If this one leaves you, do not fret,
Another will come soon.
Fresh are your roses—it’s only June.
ORPHAN SONG—THE MOTHER
As a cloud, O Lord, let me float!
Over the village let me go.
And into the village, like fine rain
Let me fall, far below.