Полынь стеной растёт, Стоит в полях теплынь. Твой голос будто мёд, А все равно полынь…
От той полынь-травы, Ох, нету сладости, А от людской молвы, Ох, нету радости.
Полыни я нарву, Себе гнездо совью. И на полынь-траву Полынь-слезу пролью. Why on the slope of the day? Was it a cold rain? You kissed me, And on the lips of wormwood.
Again you come, But my heart is pounding in vain. Withered all the flowers, And only wormwood is bitter.
Gori wormwood ... Now I know: Wormwood are your words! Wormwood is your love!
Wormwood grows by a wall, It is in the fields of heat. Your voice is like honey, And still wormwood ...
From that wormwood, Oh, no sweets, And from the human rumor, Oh, there is no joy.
Wormwood I will narwhu, I own a nest with a soviet. And on the wormwood grass Wormwood-tear shed.