# The Cliff

Эмиль Шарафутдинов

From Lermontov

A golden cloud passed the night

On the bosom of a giant cliff;

Early in the morning she took leave,

Playing merrily in the sun light;


But there has been left a humid trace

In the old cliff's wrinkle. Lonely

Stands he, thinking strongly,

Quietly crying in the barren space.