Sergey Yesenin —  It"s sad to look at you, my love

It"s sad to look at you, my love,

  And it"s so painful to remember!

  It seems, the only thing we have

  Is tint of willow in September.

  Somebody"s lips have outworn

  Your warmth and body trepidation,

  As if the rain was drizzling down

  The soul, that stiffened in congestion.

  Well, let it be! I do not dread.

  I have some other joyous gala.

  There"s nothing left for me except

  For brown dust and grizzly colour.

  I"ve been unable, to my rue,

  To save myself, for smiles or any.

  The roads that have been walked are few

  Mistakes that have been made are many.

  With funny life and funny split

  So it has been and will be ever.

  The grove with birch-tree bones in it

  Is like a graveyard, well I never!

  Likewise, we"ll go to our doom

  And fade, like callers of the garden.

  In winter flowers never bloom,

  And so we shouldn"t grieve about them.

  1923