Sergey Esenin
In that land that has the yellow dead-nettle...

In that land that has the yellow dead-nettle,
    And the dry wattle-fence,
Village huts find under willows shelter,
    Huts of loneliness.
In the dale beyond ravine's blue thicket,
    In the vert of fields,
Lies a sandy road, long and wicked, —
    To Siberian hills.
Russia in Mordva and Chud is hidden —
    Doesn’t care a straw.
People along that road to walk are bidden
    Put in iron bore.
All of them are murderers or thieves — as
    Fated were their deeds,
I have loved their mournful hopeless gazes
    Coupled with hollow cheeks.
Killers’ gladness causes lots of evil,
    Their hearts are simple,
But in blackened faces smiles the devil
    Via blue lips’ ripple.
Pure heart in me is precious burden,
    Dear yet concealed.
Still someone sometime I'll also murder
    To an autumn whistle.
Then by sand without much of racket,
    By this windy heath,
I’ll be pulled along with a rope necklet
    For to love the grief.
When I straighten breast and get a feeling
    Of that vicious smile,
Weather with its rains will be relieving
    Me of former life.

Translated by Vyacheslav Chistyakov