Sergey Esenin
In the land of yellow nettle...

In the land of yellow nettle
And dried-out wattle
Village huts, like orphans,
Cling to willows.

In the fields, behind the ravine’s blue thicket,
Among green lakes,
The sand road stretches up to
The Siberian Mountains.

Lost somewhere in Mordva and Chuda,
Russia knows no fear,
And the people, the people in shackles
Walk down that road.

All of them are murderers or thieves,
As ordained by fate.
I’ve fallen in love with their sad eyes
And their hollow cheeks.

There is so much evil and joy in killers.
Their hearts are simple.
But their blue mouths grin
On their blackened faces.

In secret, I cherish one dream:
That I’m pure of heart.
But I too will knife someone to death
One whistling autumn.

And on a windy route,
Perhaps on this very same sand,
They will lead me, rope on my neck,
To fall in love with anguish.

And when I smile, in passing,
Stretching my chest,
The bad weather will lick the road of my life
With its tongue. 

Translated by Anton Yakovlev