'Natasha, Natasha, ' cried Old Grandmother,
'Run, call the geese, draw water from the river,
Because the moon is rising over the mountains.'
Natasha spilled the river-water, left her waterfowl forgotten;
She hid in the dark pines,
Shying from frantic moonbeams.
Then Natasha wept.
There were no angels, nothing;
There was no relief:
Her tears were completely foolish.
Then Natasha knew that nothing is forbidden.
'Natasha, ' cried Old Grandmother, 'Where are you gone?
Wicked girl, do you not feel the moon? '