anton zatsepin, nadezhda kadysheva, the river is wide. you, low clouds hide the moonlight, i wish i could fly, but there are no wings. on the damp pitch, the living fire is boiling, the horse is blacker than night, by the fire. he stands, he drinks with his hoof, he is looking for a sedan, our shores, our shores, are pushed away like a horse , the house has knocked, uninvited pain, here it is love, as if, we howl, the nights are long, unloved, unloved, countable water flows far, the oar has been carried away, yes, i sawed the fruit, there were swallows, there were crows, we met early, we realized it too late, the doors are new, the hinges cannot be torn off, and one misfortune settles us in bed, the river is wide, the echo is long, the horse is blacker than the night, the code is tokala. someone knocked, lowered, here it is, love, so ardent, we while away the long nights, unloved, with the unloved, you are not so far from me, just on... the shore, but no matter how hard i tried, no matter how hard i tried, i still can’t swim to you. the r