Serhey  Esenin

           

                    *  *  *


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

   All will going like apple-tree' white smoke,

   I'm gilded as well autumn's nature all,

   I will never be with whole youngster's joke.


   
   My heart, you touched with light a cold,

   Would not beating with my young a pulse.

   And the country of a leafy birch's coat

   Never'd lure to gad by barefoot on grass.

   

   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 will not be in this world ever,

   Maples drop their leaves' of copper calm.

   So, ought to be with bless for-ever

   What had come for flourishing and die...


   1921


   Translation (2) by Vasiliy Panchenko (vipanch), 2011