There’s a stone in the steppe
That is gathering moss,
On its surface a warning is written:
"He who goes to the right
Will get nowhere in sight,
To the one who goes straight
Nothing good from his fate,
And whoever goes left
Will be puzzled at best,
He’ll be lost and bereft."

Face-to-face with the stone,
Without horses or swords,
They decide if they’re going to travel.
One was ready to fight,
So he went to his right.
He found nothing at all:
Neither hamlets nor walls.
All alone on his quest,
He returned back depressed.

There’s no path straight ahead,
Nothing stands in good stead,
But one didn’t believe in dark magic.
He raised higher his hem,
And went over the stems.
To and fro he would stroll,
but got nowhere at all.
At the end he came back,
Disappointed, he drank.

And the third one was a fool
Who had never been to school,
But he went to the left without fear.
Anyways, long story short,
The third fellow was a sport:
Never had a second thought,
Partied, rested to his want.
All his life he walked a lot:
Stayed alive, did not get lost.