Sergey Esenin
On my heart’s blood drink is no more feeding...

On my heart’s blood drink is no more feeding,
Those old fears of mine I now can calm.
To a teahouse I have come to heal them
With the dark-blue flowers of Teheran.

Serving me himself, the tubby owner,
Keen before his Russian guest to shine.
Sets upon the table dainty bowls of
Tea and not strong vodka or red wine.

Pour away, but do not overdo it.
Many roses you grow here, I see.
It so chanced a pair of dark eyes, drawing
Back a black veil, bent their gaze on me.

We in Russia don’t keep blushing maidens
Fastened up, like dogs upon a chain.
When we learn to kiss we don’t go paying
Money, baring knives — no blows we rain.

And to her whose movements are so thrilling
And whose face is radiant as the dawn,
I shall offer gifts — a splendid kilim
From Shiraz, from Horossan — a shawl.

Pour me tea, kind host, but make it stronger.
I shall not deceive you, I speak true.
For myself I’m now fully responsible
But can’t be responsible for you.

Don’t check on my comings and my goings.
There’s a backyard gate, in any case...
It so chanced a pair of dark eyes, drawing
Back a black veil, bent on me their gaze.

Translated by Peter Tempest