Sergey Esenin
Wind whistles through the steep fence...

Wind whistles through the steep fence
        hides in the grass
a drunk and a thief
        I’ll end my days
the light sinking in red hills
        shows me the path
I’m not the only one on it
        not the only one
plowed Russia stretches away
        grass and then snow
no matter what part I’d come from
        our cross Is the same
I believe in my secret hour
        as in icons not painted by hands
like a tramp who sleeps back of a fence
        it will rise my inviolate Saviour
but through the blue tattered fogs
        of unconfessed rivers
I may pass with a drunken smile
        never knowing Him
no tear lighting up on my lashes
        to break my dream
joy like a blue dove
        dropping into the dark
sadness resuming
        its vindictive song
but may the wind on my grave
        dance like a peasant in spring

Translated by W. S. Merwin