The Little Song About Night Moscow
Why are you so sad, my good artist -
my good painter, musician or bard?
To which one of the tempests, the wildest,
had you spent all your talent and heart?
And on which one of parts of the road
had you lost all your wretched cooper coins?
You were going to be a god's prophet,
but have come with a debt in a gross
Like the echo of fair times, passed here,