By Sergey Esenin
My friend, my friend,
I’m very ill, so very.
Don’t know myself, just where this pain came from.
Either the wind that whistles
Over fields, so void and barren
Or liquor sprinkling brains
Alike September groves.
My head is waving with its ears,
Alike a bird with restless wings,
For it no longer has the strength,
To wobble legs upon its neck.
Black-woven man,
Black-woven man,
The black-woven man
Sits down on my bed,
And the black-woven man
Won’t let me sleep this live-long night.
The black-woven man
Wades his finger across the vile book
And, snuffling at me,
Like at a perished monk,
Reads me from the life of
Some profligate and scoundrel,
And thus driving fear and longing through my soul
The black woven, man,
The black-woven, of darkness…
“Listen, listen, –
He mumbles to me, –
The book contains lots of
Beautiful plans and thoughts.
This man,
He lived in a land
Of the most revolting
Charlatans and thugs.
And in December, all across that land,
By devil's name, the cleanest snows are spread.
While blizzards are all winding round
The most joyous of the distaffs.
That man was a sketchy adventurer, yes,
Yet was of the highest
And choicest of grades.
He had an elegance,
Besides, was a poet,
Although with a minor,
But quite gripping power.
Was involved with some woman
Of forty-odd years.
And he called her a “lousy girl”
Called her his dear”.
“Happiness, – he would say, –
Is quickness of arms and of mind.
While the souls turned ungainly
Are always known as unhappy.
It’s alright,
That so much pain
Is brought by gestures
Dishonest and lame.
In hurricanes, storms,
Or in a livelihood's lukewarmth,
In the event of some great loss,
Or in clutches of sadness,
To manage a countenance of smiling ease –
Of all the world's art forms is certainly highest”.
"Black-woven man!
You wouldn't dare to do this!
After all, you don't live
To work at undersea service.
The life of a scandalous poet:
What do I care for it?
So, please, read aloud and spin your tales
To the rest of them."
Now the black-woven man,
Stares directly at me.
And eyes become covered
By blue-colored vomit.
As if he wants to inform me
That I'm a crook and a thief,
That I have robbed somebody,
And so shamelessly, boldly.
.....….…................…...................
My friend, my friend,
I'm very Ill, so very.
Can't say myself where-from arrived this pain.
Either the whistling of the wind
Above a void and barren field,
Or else pure liquor sprinkling brains
As if they were September groves.
How chilly this night feels.
How silent is the intersection's peace.
I am alone beside the window,
Awaiting neither friend nor guest.
The flatland's covered all across
By plaster friable and soft,
And all the trees, resembling horsemen,
Rode out to meet in our garden.
From somewhere sounds the weeping
Of some evil nightly bird .
And all the horsemen made of wood
Are sowing clatter of their hooves.
While here, the black-wound man, again,
Has climbed into my armchair,
He slightly lifts his top hat's tip,
And carelessly throws down his coat.
"Listen in, listen in! -
He whizzes while eying my face,
And constantly leaning in closer. –
I've never once seen a mean bastard
So dumbly and uselessly
Suffer insomnia.
Or say, I am wrong!
For the moon is now out.
And what else might need
Such a small dream-drunk world?
And maybe, bearing fat thighs,
"She" would secretly come,
And you'd start to recite
All your dead languid verse.
Ah, I love poets so!
Most amusing of folks.
And each carries a tale
To my heart so well-known, -
And it speaks of some acne-face missy from college
And a freak with long hair rhapsodizing on “worlds”,
While dripping with sexual torpor.
I don't know, don't remember,
In some village: Maybe, Kaluga,
Or it could be Ryazan…
Lived a simple young boy,
In a family of simple peasants.
Blue eyed boy with his hair all yellow...
Well, he's all grown up here,
And a poet to boot,
With a minor but quite gripping power.
And he's greeting some woman
Of forty-odd years,
Calling her "lousy girl"
And his dear".
"Oh, you black-woven man!
A most rotten of guests,
For so long your ill fame
Has been spread voice to voice."
I am furious, maddened,
My cane is in flight,
Driven Square at his mug,
At the bridge of his nose...
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
... The crescent has perished,
And the dawn is turning blue into the window.
Ah, my night, oh you!
What have you scribbled there, oh night?
I stand in a cylinder hat.
And by my side there stands no one.
I'm alone...
And the broken mirror...
- 1923 to November 1925