Sergey Esenin
That unsaid, that such blue and such tender...

That unsaid, that such blue and such tender...
My land's silent all after the storm.
And my soul, as field, all without ends,
Breathes with smell of honey and roses.

I have ceased. Years did their business,
But I don't curse all, that have been.
As if troika had raced, being crazy,
(* troika - the three horses, harnessed together)
Over all country and in one blink.

They have risen the dust everywhere.
Sealed their hoofs everywhere. Were gone
Under the devil's whistle. And even
In this wood temple a falling leaf heard.

Isn't bell? Or the echo in distance?
All is quietly absorbed in breast.
Stop, my soul! We have crossed through now
Way, that was destined, the stormy way.

Let consider all, that we have seen,
What has happened, what's stated in country,
And forgive those, who had offended
By their fault, or by our one.

I accept all, that was or was not now,
But have only pity at thirty's age -
Not enough in youth I had demanded,
Being lost in the smoke of feasts.

But a young oak without the acorning,
Also bows to earth, as a grass...
Eh, my youth, oh, my youth so stormy,
Golden broken up head, madcap!

Translated by Lyudmila Purgina