Wild grief and pain from the sores of body and soul, which were wearied in the struggle with stern life; intense sufferings from the wounds dealt to man by the iron hand of want--all this was invested in the simple, crude words and was tossed in ineffably melancholy sounds toward the distant, empty sky, which has no echo for anybody or anything.
Foma had stepped aside from the singers, and stared at them with a feeling akin to fright, and the song, in a huge wave, poured forth into his breast, and the wild power of grief, with which it had been invested, clutched his heart painfully.

He felt that tears would soon gush from his breast, something was clogging his throat and his face was quivering.

He dimly saw Sasha's black eyes; immobile and flashing gloomily, they seemed to him enormous and still growing larger and larger.

And it seemed to him that it was not two persons who were singing--that everything about him was singing and sobbing, quivering and palpitating in torrents of sorrow, madly striving somewhere, shedding burning tears, and all--and all things living seemed clasped in one powerful embrace of despair.

And it seemed to him that he, too, was singing in unison with all of them--with the people, the river and the distant shore, whence came plaintive moans that mingled with the song.
Now the peasant went down on his knees, and gazing at Sasha, waved his hands, and she bent down toward him and shook her head, keeping time to the motions of his hands.