Sergei Yesenin

Wind Whistles Through The Steep Fence

Wind whistles through the steep fence hides in the grass a drunk and a thief I'll end my days the light sinking in red hills shows me the path I'm not the only one on it not the only one plowed Russia stretches away grass and then snow no matter what part I'd come from our cross Is the same I believe in my secret hour as in icons not painted by hands like a tramp who sleeps back of a fence it will rise my inviolate Saviour but through the blue tattered fogs of unconfessed rivers I may pass with a drunken smile never knowing Him no tear lighting up on my lashes to break my dream joy like a blue dove dropping into the dark sadness resuming its vindictive song but may the wind on my grave dance like a peasant in spring

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