Sergey Esenin
The Dark Man

I’m sick, my friend,
I’m very, very sick.
Can’t put my finger on the origin of this pain.
Either the wind whistles
Over an empty, deserted field,
Or alcohol rains on my brain
Like it's a September grove.

My head flaps its ears
Like wings of a bird,
No longer capable of
Holding itself up on my neck.
A dark man,
Dark, dark,
Dark man
Sits down on my bed,
A dark man
Won’t let me sleep at all tonight.

The dark man
Traces his finger over a loathsome book
And, droning above me
Like a monk over a dead body,
Reads to me the life
Of some profligate scoundrel,
As fear and anguish surge.
Dark, a dark
Man, dark...

“Listen, listen,”
He mutters,
“This book is full of
Magnificent thoughts and plans.
This man
Lived in a country
Of the most repulsive
Burglars and charlatans.

In December, snow is devilishly
Pure in that country,
And blizzards spin
Merry spinning-wheels.
That man might have been a hustler,
But of the highest caliber.

He was elegant,
And a poet to boot,
Not especially strong,
But dexterous,
And called some woman
Older than forty
A naughty little girl
And his darling.”

“‘Happiness,’ he used to say,
“‘Is agility of mind and hands.
All awkward souls
Are known for their misery.
It’s no big deal
That broken
And deceitful gestures
Bring so much pain.

In times of thunder, of storms,
Of everyday cold,
In times of great loss
And when you’re sad,
Smiling and maintaining a simple appearance
Is the highest art in the world.’”

“Dark man!
Don’t you dare!
You’re no diver
To plunge my depths.
What do I care about
The life of some scandalous poet?
Be gone and read this
To some other man.”

The dark man
Looks at me point blank,
And his eyes fog up
With blue vomit.
As if to tell me
That I’m a cheat and a thief
Who steals without shame
Or hesitation.

—

I’m sick, my friend,
I’m very, very sick.
Can’t put my finger on the origin of this pain.
Either the wind whistles
Over an empty, deserted field,
Or alcohol rains on my brain
Like it's a September grove.

It’s a chilly night.
The crossroads are calm and peaceful.
I’m alone at the window,
No guests or friends will be coming.
The entire plain is thick
With soft, crumbling plaster,
And all the trees have assembled
In our garden like horsemen.

Somewhere, a sinister
Night bird is crying.
The wooden riders
Are scattering a hoof-like clatter.
Once again the dark one
Sits down in my armchair,
Raising his top hat,
Carelessly removing his frockcoat.

“Listen, listen!”
He croaks, staring me in the face,
Leaning closer
And closer to me.
“I’ve never seen any scoundrel
Suffer this needlessly
And stupidly
From insomnia.

Ah well, I guess I was wrong!
After all, the moon is out.
Does our sleep-drunk little world
Need anything else?
Maybe ‘she’ will walk by in secret
On her fat haunches
And you’ll read
Your puny languid lyrics?

Ah, how I love poets!
Amusing folk.
In them, I can always find
A story my heart recognizes —
Say, a long-haired freak
Talks to an acned female classmate
About worlds,
Dripping with sexual stupor.

Somewhere — I don’t quite remember —
In some village,
Maybe Kaluga,
Or maybe Ryazan,
A boy was born
In a simple peasant family
With yellow hair
And blue eyes...

And then he grew up,
Became a poet, to boot,
Not especially strong,
But dexterous,
And called some woman
Older than forty
A naughty little girl
And his darling.”

“Dark man!
You’re an impossible guest.
Everyone knows
Your wretched reputation.”
I’m livid, I’m enraged,
And here comes my cane,
Flying right at his mug,
At the bridge of his nose...

—

...The moon has died.
The dawn turns blue at the window.
Ah, night!
What the hell have you done?
I’m standing in my top hat.
No one around.
I’m alone...
And a broken mirror... 

Translated by Anton Yakovlev