And a fence with a nettle thread.

There over the domes of the temple

Is the turquoise dust of the sky,

And the wind rings the grass, wet and gentle,

As it comes from the lakes nearby.

It is not for the song of the valley

That I love this greenery spill,

Like a crane I"m in love with the alley

And the convent on top of the hill.

When the azure gets misty and blooming,

And the sunset hangs over the bridge

I can see you, my wandering woman,

Go to bow to the cross and beseech.

Chaste is life in the convent village,

Public prayer absorbs you all,

Pray before our Saviour"s image,

Preach to God for my fallen soul.Sergey Yesenin