Delirious, sweating, and exhausted,
Looking for a floating children's raft,
Where will the young mother meet
And to his cheek will press.
On edges and ravines,
To collect odorous fruit
And lie down in the mowed food,
Stirring the mosquito swarm.
And birch to boraviti,
And drink the sweet juice,
And burn in the rays of spring
And to the river nautek.
Oh, you young mother,
Oh, my dear,
Cheerful, funny,
I have your eyes.
With a mischievous, sly gleam,
Two wells depth,
On the same plump cheek,
Two rodimenkih spots.
Twisting, pouring stitch,
We're in a hurry,
Take off your shoes and feet
Straight ahead.
We put our hands up,
Warm drops of spring
And hide in the Lodge,
From an impetuous storm.
Gold plated curls,
The breeze plays in them,
A wet strand of sparkle,
My soul is light.
Oh, mother, gentle angel,
Give your mouth a drink of honey
And you bury it with a hug,
Our furtive conversation.
I'll run to bed,
As always you will come to me,
Tell a good story,
You'll lie down next to me.
You'll put it by the headboard,
The Image Of The Holy Mother,
You can hide your chilly legs,
Sing your cradle.
Sleep son, soundly, sweetly,
Bayushki-Bayu,
Sleep my dear child,
Remember your mother.