My way

Life is part of the coast.
Village resident davnyshnyy,
I remember the,
What I saw at the edge.
my poetry,
calmly tell
About my life.

peasant hut.
A clamp smell of tar,
shrine old,
Gentle light lamps.
How well,
That I saved those
All feeling of childhood.

under the windows
Koster snowstorm white.
I am nine years old.
bench, head, cat…
And that's sad grandmother,
steppe sang,
sometimes yawning
And crosses his mouth.

Revel snowstorm.
under the small window
As if dancing dead.
Then the empire
He was at war with the Japanese,
And all distant
imagined crosses.

Then I did not know
Black Affairs of Russia.
Did not know, what for
And why the war.
Ryazan field,
Where the music lunches,
Where they sowed their grain,
It was my country.

I remember only that,
That men murmured,
Bran in hell,
In God and king.
But they answered
Only smiled given
Yes, our liquid
lemon dawn.

Then for the first time
I clashed with rhymes.
From the host of the senses
Vskruzhylas head.
And I said,:
Kohl this itch woke up,
His heart and soul into words vypleschu.

years distant,
Now you're in a fog.
And remember, my grandfather
Sad to say:
"Empty business ...
Well, and if the pull -
Write about Rye,
But more about mares ".

Then in the brain,
Attraction to muse compressed,
streaming of dream
The mystery of silence,
What shall I
Known rich and
And it will be a monument
I stand in Ryazan.

At fifteen
I vzljubili to livers
And sweet thought,
only to retire,
I'm on this
The best of the girls,
Having reached the age of, marry.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

years ran.
Year change the face -
Other they
light falls.
Dreamer rural -
I am in the capital
He became a first-class poet.

AND, ill
writing boredom,
I went to wander
Among countries,
Not believing meetings,
Not languishing separation,
Considering the whole world for cheating.

Then I realized,
What is Russia.
I understood, what glory.
And because I
The soul of sadness
entered, as bitter poison.

Why the hell I,
That I am a poet!..
And without me in plenty of trash.
Let I'll die,
Do not place the monument in Ryazan!

Russia ... Tsarschina ...
And indulgence nobility.
so accept, Moscow,
desperate hooliganism.

We'll see -
Someone who will!
And here in my poems
The salon vyloschenny
Ryazan mare urine.

I do not like?
Yes, you're right -
The habit of Lorigan
And roses ...
But this bread,
What's eating you,–
After we order a ...
Navozom ...

Another year passed.
In the years this was,
What words
Just do not tell:
In place tsarschine
With the majestic power of
Working appeared army.

Charter hang
On other people's limits,
I returned
The house darling.
In yubchonke white
Birch stands on the pond.

Oh, and birch!
A wonderful ... chest ...
There breast
The women will not find.
From the fields sprinkled with sun
Driven to meet me
The carts rye.

They do not know me,
I told them a passerby.
But here goes
grandmother, without looking.
What is the current
ineffable shiver
I feel full back.

Can it be true it?
I shall not learned?
Well, let,
Let them pass ...
And without me she
A lot of bitterness -
No wonder the lay
Suffering so mouth.

In the evenings,
Pulled down below the cap,
Not to give
Kholod eyes,–
I go to watch
beveled steppe
And listen to,
As ringing creek.

Well then?
youth is gone!
It's time to take me
for case,
To ozorlivaya soul
Already mature singing.

And let the other village life
I will fill
new force,
Like before
It led to glory
Native Russian mare.


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Sergey Yesenin
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