Sergey Esenin
Come, Russia, proud wings plying...

Come, Russia, proud wings plying,
А different order found!
А different steppe is rising
Where different names resound.

See him in your blue valleys
Among the cows and calves
In golden homespun walking —
Your Alexei Koltsov.

А crust of bread he's holding,
Like cherry juice his mouth,
His shepherd's horn like heaven
When all the stars are out.

The monastery leaving
And a land of wind and snow,
His middle brother follows him,
In radiance he's clothed.

From the Vytegra to the. Shuya
He's roamed the countryside
And picked the nickname "Klyuev,
Your humble Mikolai" .

Sage monkwise, he is kindly,
Retelling tales we've heard
And Eastertime slips quietly
From a head that has no curls.

And there, the hilltop breasting,
Go I along the path,
А curly-headed prankster,
And such a dashing lad.

А long hard road. Uneven
And endless is the route;
But even with God's secret
I secretly dispute.

Casting a stone, I topple
The moon. And up I throw
А knife plucked from my boot-top —
Heaven trembles at the blow.

And others come invisibly
Behind me from all round
And far and wide in villages
Their dashing verses sound.

We make books out of grasses,
Words from our lap we fling.
Sweet songs, like snow and valley,
Can our Chapygin sing.

Hide, perish, generation
Of stinking dreams and thoughts!
To heads from hard stone fashioned
The song of stars we've brought.

Enough of pain and ruin
And praising infamy —
Already wakened Russia
Has scrubbed the filth away.

Her mute strength is now flying
With new wings it has found.
А different steppe is rising
Where different names resound.

Translated by Peter Tempest