The rain is sweeping Willow litter about the meadows. Wind, replete with fagots of leaves, - I am a hooligan, like you. I like it when the blue thickets, As oxen with a heavy trudge, Muddy their trunks, on their knees. Their bellies rattling with foliage. Here it is, my orange herd! Who could have sung it better? I see, I see the twilight caressing The prints of a man's feet. My Russia, wooden Russia! I am only your singer and herald, I fed the melancholy of my animilistic poems With mignonette and mint. Glimmer, midnight, the jug of the moon Should I scoop up the birch trees milk! As if the churchyard crosses Desired to choke somebody! Black dismay is wandering about the hills, The thief's gloom is flowing in our garden, But it is I, myself, a robber and a cad And in my blood, - a horse thief of the steppes. Who saw the bird cherry's troops Burning in the night? I'd rather stand alone with a tassel Somewhere on the blue steppe, at night. Ah but the bush of my head is withering, The song's captivity has engulfed me I am condemned to turning poetic millstones About the drudgery of emotions. But don't you be afraid, my insane wind, Replete with leaves, blowing calmy about the meadows The 'poet' signature will not destroy me, I am in the songs, like you, a hooligan.