Alla Pugacheva. In St. Petersburg storm (№ 383839)

You don't listen to that rain of me whispers deceptive,
And don't believe if Grom knows something about us indecent.
It is only the echo of the storm receding, lazy and bland
And the storm outside - just an old spinster duplicitous.
You don't trust the clouds in the sky flying from the North,
Don't look out the window at a frightening glitter of electricity,
You do not believe in the dark the scent of sweet clover,
You feel me burning in a moment of loneliness.