Sergey Esenin
Years of my youth...

Years of my youth, years of dissipation,
I poisoned you myself with a deadly poison.

I do not know if death is close at hand or far.
My eyes which once were blue no longer are.

Where are you, happiness? I weep, I cringe, all’s dark.
You’re nowhere to be found. Outside or in the bar.

I stretch out my arms, groping, listening to
The rush — horses, snow — the wood we’re skimming through.

“Come on cabby, drive man, drive! Show us what you’re made of.
Never mind the bumps, give our souls a shaking!”

But the driver, in response, mutters — “In this weather,
It ain’t no good for horses to get into a sweat.”

“Man, you’re a damned coward! I’m giving you the sack!”
I snatch the whip from him, lash the horses’ backs.

And the horses, like the wind, scatter the driving flakes.
Suddenly, a bump... I’m hurled into a drift.

I raise myself. What’s this hell! Instead of a smart troika —
I’m stretched out in bed, wrapped in bandages!

And instead of horses bowling along a bumpy road —
I’m beating a hard mattress with a damp strip of gauze.

I look up at the clock — its hands bristle like whiskers,
While bending over me, drowsy hospital sisters

Purr in their husky voices: “Listen, goldenhead,
You’ve poisoned yourself with a deadly poison.

We do not know if death is far or close at hand.
Your blue eyes now are soused. The tavern’s seen to that.”

Translated by Daniel Weissbort