in the Caucasus

Since ancient times, our Russian Parnassus
Drawn to a strange country,
And most of all you only, Caucasus,
Rang mysterious fog.

Here Pushkin in the sensual heat
He resigned his beleaguered soul:
"Do not sing, beauty, with me
You sad songs Georgia ".

And Lermontov, treating depression,
We talked about Azamat,
As for the horse he Kazbich
He gave his sister instead of gold.

For the sadness and bile in his face
Boiling yellow river worthy,
is he, as a poet and an officer,
Was another bullet stilled.

And Griboyedov is buried here,
As our tribute to the Persian Khmara,
At the foot of a big mountain
He sleeps under the weeping zurna and tari.

And now I'm in your bezglad
came, without knowing the reason:
Native whether the dust here obrydat
Ile spy his hour of death!

I do not care! I am full of thoughts
About them, gone and the great.
They healed guttural noise
Your valleys and wild rivers.

They ran from their enemies
And from friends here have fled,
Just to hear the ringing of steps
Yes, see the mountains gave the deaf.

And I'm from the same evils and troubles
He fled, forever to say goodbye to bohemians,
Zane ripe poet in me
With great epic theme.

Dear to me poems Russian heat.
there Mayakovsky, there except,
But he, Chief of Staff of the painter,
Sings about traffic jams in Mosselprome.

And Klyuyev, Ladoga sexton,
His poems are both padded jacket,
But I read them aloud yesterday,
And in a cage canary died.

There's nothing to consider other,
They are under the cool sun ripen,
Even paper mess
And that, how to, do not know how.

forgive, Caucasus, I them
You remarked casually,
You teach me Russian verse
Cornel juice flow,

to, Returning again to Moscow,
I could have a beautiful poem
Forget unnecessary melancholy
And do not ever be friends with bohemia.

And that one in my country
I could repeat in its hour of farewell:
"Do not sing, beauty, with me
You sad songs Georgia ".

September 1924

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Sergey Yesenin
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