Primordial Rus', Blue-eyed Rus', Snow-faced Rus' Will you raise your soul to the high sky? That which is trampled, Wounded a thousand times, Crookedly mended... Troubles and wars, Passions and enemies, Marshes and swamps... With golden thread To embroider with lace The fabrics of fate, That are frayed by time... Your bowed head - Will you proudly straighten it? Lake-blue sadness.
