The Cliff by Mikhail Lermontov. .
Translated by Dmitri Smirnov
Once upon a time a Golden Cloud
On the bosom of a Cliff was sleeping
By sunrise it with a breeze was sweeping
Gaily playing with its azure shroud;
But some traces of the cloud were seeping
To the craggy wrinkles. In the desert
The Cliff stood and mused without comfort
Deeply thinking, desperately weeping.
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