Gitana rusa

The jet black of sorrow painted your eyes
Good gypsy
I saw your tears of love
White paths
were the handkerchief of your crying
and they saddened
your heart.

Russian gypsy
you won't find him in the taverns
nor in the steppes, nor in the streets of pain
Sad gypsy
you'll be sadder when you know
that your gypsy threw himself one night into the Don...

The balalaikas
sought music in your braids
and the Cossacks
sang to your loneliness
Your black eyes
were far from life
they no longer wanted
to love again.