Sergey Esenin
Since ancient times, a special measure...

Since ancient times, a special measure
Has existed for all living things.
If I hadn’t been a poet, I probably would
Have been a thief and a conman.

Thin and short,
Always a hero among boys,
How often I came home
With a busted nose.

To my frightened mother
I hissed through my bloody mouth,
“This is nothing! I tripped on a rock.
This will heal by tomorrow.”

Now that the scalding grip
Of those days has cooled down,
A turbulent, insolent power
Spills all over my poems.

A golden pile of words—
And every line, without fail,
Reflects the former bravado
Of a rascal and a troublemaker.

As before, I’m courageous and proud,
But there’s something new in my walk.
I used to get hit in the face;
Now it’s my soul that’s bleeding.

And these days it’s not to my mother
But to an unfriendly laughing rabble
That I say, “This is nothing! I tripped on a rock.
This will heal by tomorrow!”

Translated by Anton Yakovlev