I am the last poet of the countryside…


I am the last poet of the countryside,
Modest in songs plank bridge.
During the farewell stand impoverish
Kadyaschyh lystvoy march.

Golden flame will burn down
Of bodily wax candle,
And the moon clock wooden
Prohripyat my twelfth hour.

The path blue field
Iron guest coming soon.
oat grass, dawn spilled,
Gather him a handful of black.

Do not live, other people's palms,
These songs when you do not live!
Only horses will be spikes
About the old host to grieve.

It will wind up sucking their neighing,
Coping requiem dance.
soon, soon derevynnye hours
Prohripyat my twelfth hour!


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Sergey Yesenin
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