Sergei Yesenin

Come, Russia, Proud Wings Plying

Come, Russia, proud wings plying, А different order found! А different steppe is rising Where different names resound. See him in your blue valleys Among the cows and calves In golden homespun walking - Your Alexei Koltsov. А crust of bread he's holding, Like cherry juice his mouth, His shepherd's horn like heaven When all the stars are out. The monastery leaving And a land of wind and snow, His middle brother follows him, In radiance he's clothed. From the Vytegra to the. Shuya He's roamed the countryside And picked the nickname "Klyuev, Your humble Mikolai" . Sage monkwise, he is kindly, Retelling tales we've heard And Eastertime slips quietly From a head that has no curls. And there, the hilltop breasting, Go I along the path, А curly-headed prankster, And such a dashing lad. А long hard road. Uneven And endless is the route; But even with God's secret I secretly dispute. Casting a stone, I topple The moon. And up I throw А knife plucked from my boot-top - Heaven trembles at the blow. And others come invisibly Behind me from all round And far and wide in villages Their dashing verses sound. We make books out of grasses, Words from our lap we fling. Sweet songs, like snow and valley, Can our Chapygin sing. Hide, perish, generation Of stinking dreams and thoughts! To heads from hard stone fashioned The song of stars we've brought. Enough of pain and ruin And praising infamy - Already wakened Russia Has scrubbed the filth away. Her mute strength is now flying With new wings it has found. А different steppe is rising Where different names resound.

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