I love my homeland, but this love is weird!
My mind cannot be winner fighting her,
Neither the glory, gained by bloodshed fierce,
Nor full of proud trust tranquility,
And stories of that dark and dear ancientry
Don’t bother inside of me a pleasant dream seeing.
But I do love – for what myself don’t know –
Its fields cold dreaming in the morning,
Its endless forests trembling by wind,
Spills of its rivers that look like the seas;
I like to ride by country road in the wain
And, piercing by slow glance the dark of night,
See by the sides while dreaming about the dawn
The sad villages’ shivering lights;
I love the smoke of burnt out stubble,
Love van spending its night in field
And on the hill among the yellow cornfields
The line of the birches with white sterns.
With joy, not known to many people,
I see the simple village barn,
The cottage, by the straw made cover
And with the carved shutters window;
And when the celebration’s coming
Till midnight I can watch on the
Nice dancing with the tramp and whistle
Under the speech of drunken men.
29.10.17
http://www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Lermontov/106.htm
