Our greatly praised world is so pitchy,
Here’s the snowfall in summer and winter.
Through it Man makes his pathway of life,
He’s religious and sinful alike.
Who’s thy God, O Man, what’s thy goal?—
Both of answers for thee are unknown,
And therefore thou’rt suffering pain,
O Man, on thy questionable way.
Vanya, listen to me, my dear child,
Gypsies are all the people in this life.
He may lose color and pass away,
Or become a fine flower again...
Maybe thou’lt get here wealth and kids,
But then thou’lt return to the King...
Thy bright eyes, my dear Vanya, will bloom
Like two fairy-tale poppies of blue.