Lived a poet, an artist, a singer ’mongst us,
wrote he, sang and played he for us—and he passed,
like a candle that was blown by the wind,
in the morning, he got a deep sleep,
and was o’ercome with it—
it the one with no breaking turned out.
Lived a poet, an artist, a singer for us,
at the top of his voice sang his song he to us,
his hoarse voice was heartfelt and distinct,
often his fingers were bled, tore the strings,
and the air would ring with
our applause when he came to us.
Lived a poet, an artist, a singer—he put
into written by him all his soul to the root.
And his song made its way to the folks,
thus the “Yak” to its flying takes off,
and the ice on the Earth
was unable to impede it to shoot.
Lived a poet, an artist, a singer with us,
to restrain his proud horses’ pace he had no chance,
with no breaking they carried him forth
through our bitter-sour-sweet-salty earth,
through our great Russian earth,
there’s no other earth with such proud ones.