The lonely sail shows white
In the pale blue fog of the sea...
What is it searching for in a distant land?
What has it left in its native land?
The waves play--the wind whistles,
And the mast bends and squeaks...
Alas! it doesn't search for happiness,
And doesn't flee from happiness!
Below it a stream brighter than azure,
Above it a golden ray of sun...
And it, rebellious, asks for storms,
As if in storms there were peace!
Mikhail Iurievich Lermontov
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