In the transparent cold zagolubeli dales,
Otchetliv savvy clatter of hoofs,
Grass faded into the floors spread out
Sbiralsya copper chapped willows.

With empty ravines creeping dugoyu skinny
wet fog, curly rolled up into the moss,
And tonight, svesyvshys over Recka, poloschet
Water white fingers of blue feet.


Autumn cold colored in hope,
My horse stumbles, as a silent fate,
And catches edge waving clothes
His slightly wet buckskin lip.

The road far, not to fight, not to rest,
Involve me invisible traces,
will go out the day, melknuv fifth Zlatev,
And calm down box works in years.


Loose rust blush on the road
Bald hills and sand slegshiysya,
And dancing in the twilight galochey alarm,
Bending the moon in a shepherd's horn.

Milk smoke blown swings village,
But there is no wind, there is only a slight jingle.
And Russ snoozing in anguish for its lively,
Clutching hands in yellow steep.


night beckons, close to the hut,
Dill sluggish smells garden.
On the beds gray cabbage volnovatoy
Horn moon pours a drop of oil.

I reach for warmth, inhale the soft bread
And hruptom mentally bite cucumber,
For smooth surface vzdrognuvshee sky
It displays a cloud of stalls under the bridle.


bed, bed, I have long been familiar
Your concurrent razymchivost blood,
The mistress is sleeping, and fresh straw
Flattened thighs vdoveyuschey love.

already dawn, paint cockroach
Circled the shrine on the corner,
But its small rain prayer early
Another knock on the glass darkly.


Again in front of me the blue field,
Pump puddles sun rdyany face.
Others in the heart of joy and pain,
And a new dialect sticky tongue.

Water freezes shaky blue in his eyes,
My horse stumbles, throwing bits,
And a handful of swarthy foliage last heap
Throws after the wind out of the hem.


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Sergey Yesenin
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