There`s one joy left to me: whistling
With, two fingers in my moth.
The tale that I like tavern - brawling
And swearing has got about.
How really comic the loss is!
In life many more we know.
I`m ashamed I believed in God once,
I regret not believing now.
How deep were the vistas, how golden!
All perish in life`s grim night.
I swore and I raised hell, so as
To burn with a brighter light.
The poet`s gift - soothing or harrying -
Was on me by fate bestowed.
I wanted on earth to marry
A white rose to a black toad.
What matter if my fair intentions
Their fulfilment never saw?
If fiends in my heart have nested,
There were angels in it before.
For the sake of this murky merriment,
When for other shores I am bound
I`d like at the very last moment
To beg those who`ll gather round.
That for all my sins and failings,
For distrusting blessings, may I
In a Russians blouse be laid out
Under the icons to die.
Sergei Esenin (1895 - 1925), Russia.