Sergey Esenin
Snow gone, mounds of clay are drying...

Snow gone, mounds of clay are drying.
Mold of mushrooms on the foothills.
On the plains the wind is dancing —
Like a gentle small red donkey.

Smells of pine and pussy willow...
Heaven sometimes sighs — and dozes.
And a sparrow reads his psalter
At the pulpit of the forest.

In the draw the leaves of last year
Heap like copper in the bushes.
Someone wearing sunny kaftan
Rides upon the small red donkey.

His hair is as soft as raw flax.
But His face is sadly clouded.
Pine trees, fir trees bow before
Him And shout out to him, «Hosanna!»

Translated by Merrill Sparks and Vladimir Markov