I will not come back to the fold…

I will not come back to the fold,
Eternally wandering wanderer.
About left over the pond
Let yearns Konoplyanik.

Let rough grassland
Me singing nettles, –
Splatters midnight arc,
bell talkative.

Highly worth the moon,
Not even hats dokinut.
Song of the mystery is not given,
Where she was living and where poginut.

But on the side of our years
In the father's house are roads.
Lucky deaf hearse
Polutrup, half skeleton.

For good reason for a long time
There is a saying among the people:
Even the dog in the master's yard
Fainting always comes.

I turn back to the fold -
I lived and not lived a poor wanderer ...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The blue night over the pond
wept Konoplyanik.


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Sergey Yesenin
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