Serghey  Esenin

           

                    *  *  *


   I don't cry, don't pity and not call,

   Whatsoever go'ff as white apple-tree's a smoke.

   A wast away me gilds like nature all,

   I'll never be with youngster's whole my a joke.


   My heart, you'll never be so pulse,

   And you, alas, are touched with light a cold,

   And in my country of the birch's cloth

   Yet will never lure to gad me by a barefoot go.


   Spirit vagrant! You so rarely seldom

   Moves the flame of the mouth' chance.

   Oh, my freshness, you are me abandon,

   My violence eyes' and flood of sense.


   All we, all we would not be in this world ever,

   Maples drop their leaves' of copper calm.

   So, ought to be with bless forever

   What had come for flourishing and die...


   1921


   Translation of Vasiliy Panchenko, 2011