Sergey Esenin
It`s sad to look at you, my love...

It's sad to look at you, my love,
And it's so painful to remember!
It seems, the only thing we have
Is tint of willow in September.

Somebody's lips have outworn
Your warmth and body trepidation,
As if the rain was drizzling down
The soul, that stiffened in congestion.

Well, let it be! I do not dread.
I have some other joyous gala.
There's nothing left for me except
For brown dust and grizzly colour.

I've been unable, to my rue,
To save myself, for smiles or any.
The roads that have been walked are few
Mistakes that have been made are many.

With funny life and funny split
So it has been and will be ever.
The grove with birch-tree bones in it
Is like a graveyard, well I never!

Likewise, we'll go to our doom
And fade, like callers of the garden.
In winter flowers never bloom,
And so we shouldn't grieve about them.

Translated by Alec Vagapov

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