For you, Robert! Sergey Yesenin.

[Balu]

I"m tired of living in my land
With boring fields and buckwheat fragrant,
I"ll leave my home for ever, and
Begin the life of thief and vagrant.

I"ll walk through silver curls of life
In search of miserable dwelling.
My dearest friend will whet his knife
On me. The reason? There"s no telling.

The winding yellow road will go
Across the sunlit field of flowers,
The girl whose name I cherish so
Will turn me out of her house.

I will return back home to live
and see the others feeling happy,
I"ll hang myself upon my sleeve,
On a green evening it will happen.


The silky willows by the fence
Will bend their tops low down, gently,
To dogs" barking, by my friends,
Unwashed, I will be buried plainly.

The moon will float up in the sky
Dropping the oars into the water...
As ever, Russia will get by
And dance and weep in every quarter.

.................................................. ..........

I will not deceive myself, admitting
I have worries in my heart, so dreary.
Why am I reputed as a cheating
Crook and trouble-maker, really?

I am not a villain nor a thief in hiding,
And I never shot imprisoned convicts.
I am just a thoughtless idler, smiling
Friendly and avoiding conflicts.

I am a naughty reckless Moscow loner.
All along the main street, and around,
Every little dog in every corner
Knows me by the way I tread the ground.

Every jade I meet, rundown and hopeless,
Gives me nods of hail and salutation.
I am a friend of animals, my verses
Are as good for them as medication.

I don"t wear my hat to charm the ladies
For I can"t stand featherbrained emotions.
It"s convenient to use my hats as ladles
Filling them with oats to feed the horses.

I do not have friends among the people,
It"s a different kingdom I am bound to.
I will gladly give my tie to simple
Shaggy dog I happen to encounter.

From now on I will be safe and sound.
In my heart a sunny day is breaking.
That"s the reason why they tend to count
Me to be a crook and trouble-maker.

.................................................

A LETTER TO MOTHER

Are you still alive, my dear granny?
I am alive as well. Hello! Hello!
May there always be above you, honey,
The amazing stream of evening glow.

I"ve been told that hiding your disquiet,
Worrying about me a lot,
You go out to the roadside every night,
Wearing your shabby overcoat.

In the evening darkness, very often,
You conceive the same old scene of blood:
Kind of in a tavern fight some ruffian
Plunged a Finnish knife into my heart.

Now calm down, mom! And don"t be dreary!
It"s a painful fiction through and through.
I"m not so bad a drunkard, really,
As to die without seeing you.

I"m your tender son as ever, dear,
And the only thing I dream of now
Is to leave this dismal boredom here
And return to our little house. And how!

I"ll return in spring without warning
When the garden blossoms, white as snow.
Please don"t wake me early in the morning,
As you did before, eight years ago.

Don"t disturb my dreams that now have flown,
Don"t perturb my vain and futile strife
For it's much too early that I've known
Heavy loss and weariness in life.

Please don"t teach me how to say my prayers!
There is no way back to what is gone.
You"re my only joy, support and praise
And my only flare shining on.

Please forget about your pain and fear,
and don"t worry over me a lot
Don"t go out to the roadside, dear,
Wearing your shabby overcoat.

[Balu]

It"s sad to look at you, my love,
And it"s so painful to remember!
It seems, the only thing we have
Is tint of willow in September.

Somebody"s lips have outworn
Your warmth and body trepidation,
As if the rain was drizzling down
The soul, that stiffened in congestion.

Well, let it be! I do not dread.
I have some other joyous gala.
There"s nothing left for me except
For brown dust and grizzly colour.

I"ve been unable, to my rue,
To save myself, for smiles or any.
The roads that have been walked are few
Mistakes that have been made are many.

With funny life and funny split
So it has been and will be ever.
The grove with birch-tree bones in it
Is like a graveyard, well I never!

Likewise, we"ll go to our doom
And fade, like callers of the garden.
In winter flowers never bloom,
And so we shouldn"t grieve about them.

.......................................

The golden birch-tree grove has fallen silent
Its merry chatter having stopped afore,
The cranes up there flying over, sullen,
Have nobody to pity any more.

Whom should they pity? Each is just a trotter.
One comes and goes and leaves for good again.
The moon and hempen bush above the water
Remember all those perished, filled with pain.

I"m standing on the plain all on my own,
The cranes, the wind is taking them away,
I think about my boyhood which has flown,
And I do not regret my bygones anyway.

I don"t regret the days that I discarded,
I don"t feel sorry for the lilac of my soul.
The purple rowan burning in the garden
Can"t warm and comfort anyone at all.

The rowan will maintain its coloration.
The grass exposed to heat will not decease,
I drop my words of sorrow and vexation
The way a tree drops quietly its leaves.

And if some day the wind of time intended
To rake them all up in a useless roll...
You ought to say: the golden grove has ended
Its lovely chatter in the prime of fall.
.................................................. .................