The night is moonless. The mountain is lawless. Lonely hall is near the mountain. 
The exiled Decembrist writes poetry therein. 
On the cold stone floor, laying out the blades, 
In the light of the burning candles, 

Thinking the image of a young, brave lady, 
Whose desperate beauty he was fallen smittenly. 
Her voice is wrapping like a cobweb. 
He writes how his heart was wounded,  

At this moonless southern night, which is lighter than a lock of her long hairs, 
Due to mayastra's piping gaze and the length of her eyelashes. But he is not in her eyes. 
The piercing brown gaze is recognized to another heart bleeded. 
There, where his heart was, now is emptiness. It is a march time for feet.  

He threw trump cards before in his life, led regiments on the squares. 
And now, beeing in these dead swamps, 
languishing from the stench of loneliness and longing, 
He will throw in the hearts: “You will coming!” 

The fate will covered with iamb and choree, 
That makes it easier for him, because the fetters won't be so strongly, 
When he will open the soul for she. 
On the damp earth, falling asleep, he will see dreamly:  
 
There, in the capital city, where the dream will remained, 
With a smile that will engraved in his memory which will memorized 
Hunching over in the boiler room, Tsoi heats the houses. 
You laugh over me vainly. I say you her heady laugh turns on the steet lights!  

The horn sounded - it's time to go for him, 
Get on stage, put a chair, with the fight of the strings, 
Play guitar folded verses for a girl is nine star out of ten one 
Entering in the heart to erect her pedestal.  

She is graceful, her skin is dark, she is fast like an obstinate antelope. 
Elegant, smart, good-looking, the living boy told her about that, 
While he was sitting in the trench, he wrote about her on a piece of paper with blade, 
How he fell in love with her shoulders, meanwhile the battle began.  

He had to finish, scratching the wet paper with a bleeded pencil. 
To draw her eyes, they are like the profile of an ibis bird, when she is laughing. 
The corners of her lips look up - this is life loves her, but the boy does not. 
He is not here… 
You will ask: “why is she so good for?" 
I respond: "And the fact that her gaze can raise the cold corpse".