Sergey Esenin
In the country of yellow nettles...

In the country of yellow nettles
the twig fences are brittle
the log houses huddle like orphans
into the pussy-willows

through fields over the hills’ blue
by the greenness of lakes
a road of sand leads to the mountains
of Siberia

Between Mongols and Finns Russia
is lost there before she is frightened
along the road men make their way
in irons

Each one has robbed or killed
as his fate would have it
I am in love with the grief of their eyes
and the graves in their cheeks

many have killed from pure joy
they are simple-hearted
but in their darkened faces
the blue mouths are twisted

I cherish one secret dream
that I am pure in heart
but I too will cut a throat
to the whistling of autumn

I too on the blown road
on these same sands
will go with a rope at the neck
to make love to mourning

I will smile as I go by
I will swell out my chest
and the storm will lick over
the way I came

Translated by W. S. Merwin