Russia drinks hard, without restrain
and, as a woman, hopelessly, with sapping,
with long loud crying, as if out of spite,
as if she is compelled to be unhappy.
Her son doesn’t comprehend, why so,
For what did Lord send down for her
such bad lot?
He happens to recall the Mother’s face,
and thinks of her – of love and suffering hot.
Was it not she, who credulously looked
from the forgotten photo, fare and clear?
Her look is bright, her brow is white and high.
The twentieth – century,
the seventeenth – the year.