Sergey Esenin
Soviet Russia

to A. Sakharov

That hurricane has passed. Few of have survived.
At the roll call of friendship many are absent.
Again I have returned to the deserted land,
Where I have not been for eight years.

Who shall I call? With whom can I share
The melancholy joy, that I stayed alive?
There is even a windmill here — a wooden bird
With but one wing — standing, having closed its eyes.

I am unknown to everyone here,
And those who might remember, forgot me years ago
And there, where once was my father's home,
Now there is ash and a layer of road dust.

And life is bubbling,
Passing by briskly
Young and old faces alike.
But nobody nods a hat to me,
In nobody's eyes can I find shelter.

And there a wishing thoughts in my head:
What is our Motherland?
Are these dreams?
For in most folks eyes I am a weary pilgrim here
God knows what faraway country I came from.

And it is me.
I am a citizen of this village,
Which only will become famous because
Here once a woman gave birth to
A scandalous Russian poet.

But the mind's voice says to the heart:
«Be reasonable! Why are you offended?
For it only a fresh light
By the houses another generation is burning.

You have blossomed a bit already,
Other youths sing different songs.
Likely they will turn out more interesting, —
Not just the village, but our whole land will be their mother».

Ah, motherland! What a strange person I have become.
On my hollow cheeks a clown's rouge is blushing
My fellow citizens' language has become unfamiliar to me,
I am as a stranger in my own country.

Here I see:
Sunday's villagers have gathered
In the district, as though for church.
They dispute their calling
In knotty, unwashed conversations.

Already it is evening. With liquid gold
The dawn has dappled the gray fields.
And bare feet, like cows at the gates,
Have thrust the poplars in the ditches.

Limping, a Red Army soldier with a sleepy face,
His forehead frowning with the memories,
Importantly, is telling about Budenny
About how the Red soldiers defended Brokop.

«And we struck him — so and so, —
This bourgeois... the one... in the Crimea...»
And the maple trees, their ears wrinkled with long branches,
The women groaning in the numb darkness.

Yonder the peasant komsomol is coming down the mountain,
And they are singing revolutionary songs by Bedny Demyan,
Zealously playing the harmonica,
Filling the air with merry laughter.

What a country!
So what the hell
Did I yell out in my poems I am friendly to the people?
My poetry is no longer needed here,
And, likely, I myself am no longer needed.

So well!
I am sorry, dear homeland.
What I did for you — I am proud of.
They do not have to glorify me now —
I already was glorified, when my land was ill.

I accept everything.
I accept it as it is.
I am ready to mount the imprinted steps.
I'll give all my soul to October and May,
But I won't give just my lyre.

I will give this to a stranger's hands, —
Neither to my mother, nor a friend,
To me alone did she bequeath her sounds,
And tender songs she sang only to me.

Bloom, youth, and let your flesh become healthier!
You have another life. You have another tune.
And I will go alone to unknown borders
My soul has long since quietened.

But yet even then,
When on the entire planet
The animosity of tribes will come to an end,
Lies and sorrow will vanish,
I will glorify
With all my poet's soul
The sixth part of the land
With the short name «Rus».

Translated by Lyuba Coffey