Sergey Esenin
Don’t torment me with your icy demeanor...

Don’t torment me with your icy demeanor
And don’t ask me how old I am.
I’ve got a severe falling sickness;
My soul is a yellow skeleton.

There was a time when, hailing from outskirts,
In a smoke of my boyish dreams,
I imagined riches and fame,
And being loved by all.

Yes! I’m rich, I’m rich beyond words.
I had a top hat; now I don’t.
All I’ve got left is one shirtfront
And a worn-out pair of fashionable shoes.

And my fame is no worse:
From Moscow to Paris
My name inspires horror
Like a loud swearword painted on a fence.

As to love — isn’t it funny?
You kiss me, but lips feel like tin.
I know, my feeling is overripe
And yours won’t be able to bloom.

Oh well, I’m too young to brood,
And if I’m sad — what of it?
Fresh grass that covers the hills
Rustles with more gold than your braids.

I’d love to go back to that place
Where, listening to rustling golden grass,
I could sink forever into oblivion
In the smoke of my boyish dreams.

But this time I’d dream of something new,
Something earth or grass can’t understand,
Something no heart can express in words
And no human being could name. 

Translated by Anton Yakovlev