All around the apple trees there is a swirl There is wind on the skin. Well, I'll hurry to death Like revenge on his face? Shamenisya, playful wind, Blame this cruel mockery... Still, the snow-white flower is circling, Nibi quiet sum. That soul does not hurt the apple trees, The cry of breasts does not split, Bo namist for rosy apples Have mercy on people. І life windless Sweeps my bottom color, On the pain of the soul, on the skin, Having tasted the golden fruit. God, give me strength in times of trouble, So as not to blow me away from the storm. My goodness is your city, Vine is for You, my God, Vine is Yours.
