I know a rock in a highland's ravine,
On which only eagles might ever be seen,
But a black wooden cross o'er a precipice reigns,
It rots and it ages from tempests and rains.

And many years have gone without any hints,
From times when it was seen from faraway hills.
And its every arm is raised up to the sky,
As if catching clouds or going to fly.

Oh, if I were able to rise there and stay,
Then how I'd cry there and how I'd pray;
And then I would throw off real life's chains
And live as a brother of tempests and rains!

Author: Mikhail Lermontov