“In Novgorod, indeed, they are bullies and dare-devils. In Yaroslavl, really, they are fist fighters and line fighters. In Kostroma they are hellbenders, I swear it! And floating around the Volga expanses, with a saber and a pole-axe, each of them is a boyar. Every one of them believes that, by all means, he will make a fortune and win honour in battle by his boldness and sharp blade”. So, down the wind, Wolves of the North!
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The Volga whispered to me evoking sweetest dreams,
With splashes archly played – at twilight latest gleam.
The calm reed-pipes with splashes played,
Like in a cradle I was waved.
And to the rowlocks’ scratch, as if I’m in the cradle,
Above the flood bends She lit up the stars like candles.
O’er the broad river course, above the bights’ flood,
You rose high as the New Moon, as story-telling bards.
New Moon, tell me some tales with old forgotten words,
The tales about how the waves are longed-for by oars.
The oars ask to let them loose and yearn to meet the waves,
Await the spring to meet the waves and their daring fates.
Their daring fates, their happiness and their overthrow,
And ride the Volga’s waves – the journey’s long way off.
The Volga whispered again "The journey is so long…",
Playing with splashes at twilight to her reed-pipe song.