Sergey Esenin
They are drinking here again, brawling, sobbing...

They are drinking here again, brawling, sobbing,
to the amber woes of the accordion.
They curse their luck and they hark back
to a Russia — a Moscow — of other days.

For my part, I duck my head,
my eyes foundering in wine,
rather than look fate in the face,
I think of something else for a while.

There is something that we have all lost forever.
My dark blue May, my pale blue June,
that must be why the corpse smell
dogs this frantic carousal.

Oh, today’s a great day for the Russians
the homemade vodka’s flowing
and the noseless accordionist’s singing
of the Volga and the secret police.

They’re grumbling that bony October
caught them all in its blizzard
courage has gone back to whetting
the knife from its boot.

A hatred shifts in the eyes
rebellion grates in the raised voices
and they pity the young and foolish
whose blood flamed up and burned away.

Where are you now and why so far?
Do we shine brightly for you?
The accordionist’s on a vodka cure
for his clap caught in the Civil War.

No. the lost Russia will not be silenced.
On all sides the rot feeds a wild courage.
Oh Russia, my Russia,
rising in Asia.

Translated by W. S. Merwin