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My friend, My friend,
I am very, very ill.
I do not know, where this pain.
Whether the wind whistles
Over the empty and deserted field,
That is my only weapon, as a grove in September,
Showers brains alcohol.

my head waving his ears,
As the wings of a bird,
Her legs around his neck
Looms large nevmoch.
Black man,
The black, the black,
Black man
On the bed sits me,
Black man
Sleep keeps me up all night.

Black man
He drives a finger on the vile book
AND, nasal me,
As of the dead monk,
Reads my life
Some scoundrel and profligate,
Catching up on the soul longing and fear.
Black man,
The black, the black…

"Hear, hear, —
He mutters to me, —
The book contains many beautiful
Thoughts and plans.
This person
I lived in the country
most heinous
Thunder and charlatans.

In December, in the country
Snow Devil to clean,
And blizzards give birth
cheerful distaff.
He was a man of the adventurer,
But the highest
And the best brands.

He was graceful,
To that poet,
Even with a small,
But the power of uhvatistoy,
And some woman,
Forty years,
He called bad girl
And his miloyu ".

"Happiness, - he said,, —
There agility of mind and hands.
All the misfortunes of the soul
For accidents is always known.
It's nothing,
That much torment
bring broken
And false gestures.

The storm, in the storm,
In worldly styn,
Bereavement
And when you're sad,
Smiling and seem simple -
The highest in the world of art ".

"Black man!
Do not you dare this!
You're not in the service
live Vodolazova.
What am I up to life
scandalous poet.
You are welcome, other
Read it and tell me ".

Black man
He looks straight at me.
And his eyes are covered
blue vomit.
As if to tell me,
What I'm a crook and a thief,
So shamelessly and brazenly
Robbed someone.
…………………
…………………

My friend, My friend,
I am very, very ill.
I do not know, where this pain.
Whether the wind whistles
Over the empty and deserted field,
That is my only weapon, as a grove in September,
Showers brains alcohol.

frosty night…
Quiet quiet crossroads.
I am alone at a window,
neither guest, no other not wait.
The whole plain is covered
Friable and soft lime,
And the trees, both riders,
We gathered in our garden.

Where is crying
Night ominous bird,
wooden riders
Sow kopytlivy knock.
Here again, the black
On my chair sits,
Lifting his top hat
And carelessly throwing his coat.

"Hear, hear! —
he croaks, Look me in the face.
Himself closer
And closer slopes. —
I did not see, anyone
of scoundrels
So unnecessary and stupid
insomniac.

Brother, put, wrong!
After all, today the moon.
What do you need more
Napoennomu dremoy miriku?
Can, thick thighs
Secretly come "she",
And you read
His dead languorous lyrics?

Brother, I love poets!
funny people!
They always find me
history, heart familiar,
The student how prыshtavoy
The long-haired freak
He speaks of worlds,
Genital bleeding languor.

I do not know, I do not remember,
In one village,
Can, Kaluga,
Or maybe, Ryazan,
there lived a boy
In a simple peasant family,
yellow-haired,
With blue eyes…

And so he became an adult,
To that poet,
Even with a small,
But the power of uhvatistoy,
And some woman,
Forty years,
He called bad girl
And his miloyu ".

"Black man!
You - wretched guest!
This glory has long
About you spreads ".
I'm furious, razayaren,
And my cane flies
Straight to his face,
The bridge of the nose…
………………….

…month died,
Blue in the window sunrise.
Brother, you, night!
What are you, night, nakoverkala!
I'm standing in the cylinder.
There is no one with me.
I am alone…
And - a broken mirror…

<1923 -> November 14 1925

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All poems of Sergey Yesenin

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