Nov 01

I don’t pity, don’t call, don’t cry…

Poetry of Sergey Aleksandrovich Yesenin

Translated by Lyuba Coffey

I don’t pity, don’t call, don’t cry,

All will be gone, like haze from the white apple trees.

Seized by the gold of withering,

I will never be young again.

My heart touched by the chill within,

You will not beat as before,

And the cotton birches of the countryside

No more will lure me to gad about barefoot.

Wandering spirit! Less and less

Do you stir the flame of my lips.

Oh, gone, my freshness,

Stormy eyes, high water of feelings.

Now, I’ve become tame in my wishes,

Life of mine? Did you come in dreams to me?

As if at an echo-filled early Spring hour

I rode by on a rose-colored stallion.

We all, we all decay in this world,

The copper flows quietly from the maple trees.

Let it be in centuries blessed,

That it happened to me to bloom and die.