Song of the bread

There she is, harsh brutality,
Where the whole point - suffering!
Cuts sickle heavy ears,
As for the throat cut swans.

Our field has long been familiar
On the morning of August tremor.
Tied up in bundles of straw,
Each bundle of lies, as the yellow corpse.

on telegah, as the hearse,
They were taken to the burial crypt - barn.
like a deacon, kobыlu of garknuv,
Driver honors funeral rite.

Then they carefully, without anger,
Trail heads on the ground
And flails small bones
Knocked out of thin Teles.

Anyone and would not get up,
That straw - is also flesh!..
Ogress mill - teeth
In the mouth pop those bones thrashing.

AND, meleva of fermenting dough,
Baked pile of delicious dishes ...
That's when it enters the poison whitish
The jug of a stomach egg laying anger.

All beatings rye Pripek odrasiv,
Rudeness reaper may squeezing the juice into Duhmjanyj,
He eat the meat straw
Poisons millstone intestines.

And whistling across the country, like autumn,
sham, murderer and villain ...
Because that cuts sickle ears,
As for the throat cut swans.


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Sergey Yesenin
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