Opus Posth, Dmitry Pokrovsky Folk Ensemble

A-A-A O-O-O Eh-Eh-Eh Ee-Ee-Ee Oo-Oo-Oo

The meadow's lowing now is sinking

And there, in that other shade, you scatter the thronging clouds of flies

Like a black wind

Your lips are the black grouse's brow

From an old rowboat's transom

Ever these shades draw me in

In the gorge where the dog rose blooms

Wind, you hear, this deed is frightful!

Wind, is that you?