Sergey Esenin
This street is so very familiar...

This street is so very familiar
And this humble cottage too.
Now wires are thrown over the window
Like а bundle of straws, bright blue.

There were years of much bitter suffering,
Of strength that was willful and wild.
I recall early days in the country,
The blue hues of the countryside.

Not fame or peace have I been seeking.
I know how vain such fame can be.
Today when with closed eyes I'm dreaming
It's only the old home I see.

Blue raindrops are decking the garden,
By the fence August curls up to drowse.
With their green paws the lindens are guarding
The birdsong adorning their boughs.

How I loved it, this cottage of timber,
The wrinkled beams breathing snug might.
Our stove in а strange way would whimper
And wail on а dark rainy night.

Loud sighing, and sobbing and wheezing,
As for someone living but lost.
What could that brick camel be seeing
In the rain's wailing that never stopped?

Some faraway countries, evidently,
And other more auspicious days,
Afghanistan's golden deserts
And Bukhara's glassy haze.

With those distant lands I'm familiar.
I followed there many а track.
Somewhere that is nearer my homeland
I prefer now — it's time to go b ack.

The sweet daydream vanishes suddenly,
Dissolving in blue mist, it's gone.
Peace to you, my field-straw country,
Peace to you, dear timber home!

Translated by Peter Tempest