My Russia!

You so are fine with gray-blue eyes of the rivers and lakes, in magnificent clothes of woods and apple and cherry orchards, You are magnificent in beads from berries of a mountain ash, with a crown made from field flowers: the camomiles, the cornflowers, the small blue handbells. The rich bride! You own boundless open spaces, the small and the big cities, and the great record in history, culture and science. My Russia! Beauty! But why are you so indifferent to the destinies of your many unfortunate children - like a mother, who throws her own child into an orphanage? Yes, you never surrendered your own beauty and rest for the sake of your best poets. Pushkin, Lermontov, Yesenin, Mayakovskiy, Tzvetaeva, Blok , Mandelshtam died young because of their heavy problems. The bullets of envious persons, injustice and insults, a persecution of the governments or simply poverty and famine have killed all of them or have forced them to end their lives voluntarily. None of them wanted to die so early! Beauty Russia! If you, our mother, had caressed and had protected them, they would have glorified you in their poems for many more years. My Russia! You have become even more beautiful! Your capitals sparkle with lights, Your earth gives diamonds and oil. But you again care only about your own beauty, and you want to know nothing about many your unfortunate children. You never will recollect me, either. As you are so cruel in your indifference, I cannot call you mother. But you are so fine with your gray-blue eyes of the rivers and lakes, in magnificent clothes of woods and apple and cherry orchards, in the beads from berries of a mountain ash and in a crown of field flowers. That is why, in spite of all, thrown away and forgotten by you, I continue to love you so much, as I will not able to love any other country of the world.