Years young with zabubennoy glory…

Years young with zabubennoy glory,
I poisoned myself you bitter poison.

I dont know: Do my end is near, How far is,
We had blue eyes, but is now faded.

Where are you, joy? Darkness and horror, sad and a shame.
In the field, whether? In the tavern? I can not see anything.

Pull your hands - and that listening to the touch:
Let's go ... horses ... Sani ... snow ... we drive through a grove.

"Hey, coachman, Carry vengeance! Tea, not born weak!
Soul vыtryasty not sorry for this uhabam ".

And the driver in response to one: "In such a blizzard
Very scary, so that in the way the horse sweat ".

"You, coachman, I see, quake. It is not with our hands!»
I took the whip and whip well on the backs loshazhim.

Beau, and horses, like a blizzard, snow flakes spread in.
Sudden jolt ... and from the sled directly to the snow I.

I stood up and see: What the hell - instead brisk trio ...
Lying bandaged on a hospital bed.

And instead of horses on the road bumpy
I beat a tough bed Modra bandage.

Facial hours a mustache twirled the arrow.
Leaned over me sleepy nurse.

Tilt and wheezing: "Oh you, zlatoglavыy,
You poisoned himself a bitter poison.

We do not know, Whether your end is near, How far is, –
Blue your eyes soaked in the taverns ".


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Sergey Yesenin
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