I will inquire of the Don, of the sweeping wide waters,
I will inquire of the sea, of the thundering breakers,
Of the swart sun that beat down in the heat of each battle,
Of the shrill heights where the raven, full sated, now slumbers.

Then shall the Don say: —I never knew soldiers so burnished!
Then shall the sea say: —My tears are too few for your weeping!
Then shall the sun hide its face, and the raven come croaking:
Three hundred years—and I never saw bones that were whiter!

Crane on the wing, I will circle the Cossacks' far townships:
Weeping, they go! —I will question the dust that enswirls them!
Waving farewell, see, the steppe-grass, its feathers fair downy.
Crimson, ah, crimson, the cornel on Perekop's foreland!

All, I will ask: those that peacefully passed through those fell days,
Rocked in their cradles.
Skulls in the rocks—even they shall be summoned to answer:
Gallant White Guard—lo, your chronicler's found that shall serve you .

November 1920