No regrets, no calling and no crying,
All will pass like petals from fruit tree,
All engulfed in pretty golden fading
I won't be a youngster in my dreams.
You will not be beating like before heart,
You are touched a little bit with cold,
And the country of birch-patterned cotton
Will not lure to run around barefoot.
Roaming spirit! Now you very seldom
Move around the fire of the lips,
And my God, my lost forever freshness,
Swollen eyes and flood of senses still.
I'm more modest now in my desires,
Oh my life, did I just make it worse
By imagining like early morning
Will I ride a rose-coloured horse?
All of us are prone to decaying,
Copper leaves do slowly fall on earth,
You be blessed forever for portraying
What in world came blooming before death.
From S. Esenin
© Copyright: Яков Зайден, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120122907169
Свидетельство о публикации №120122907169
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