Confessions of a bully - Yesenin

Not everyone can sing,
Not everyone is given an apple
Fall to someone else's feet.

This is the greatest confession,
Which is confessed bully.

I purposely go unkempt,
With a head, as a kerosene lamp, on shoulders.
Your souls leafless autumn
I like to illuminate in the dark.
I like, when stones battle
Fly me, burp as hail storms.
I just stronger then shake hands
After swinging my hair bubble.

So well then I remember
Overgrown pond and hoarse ringing alder,
That somewhere in my living father and mother,
Who do not care at all of my poems,
Which road I, as a field and as flesh,
As rain, green fields in the spring loosens.
They would come to forks to stab you
For every cry of your, thrown at me.
Poor, poor peasants!
You, probably, It becomes ugly,
Just fear God and marsh subsoil.
ABOUT, if you understand,
What is your son in Russian
The best poet!

You only weapon for the life of his heart not indeveli,
When he bare feet in puddles autumn dipped?
And now he goes to a cylinder
And lacquered shoes.

But lives in it the same enthusiasm vpravki
village bully.
Each cow with a butcher's shop signs
He bows from afar.
AND, met with cabbies on the square,
Remembering the smell of manure from their native fields,
He is ready to carry the tail of each horse,
As wedding dresses trail.

I love home.
I love home!
Though there is sadness in her wicker rusht.
I am pleased pigs stained muzzle
And in the silence of the night ringing voice of toads.
I gently sick recollection of childhood,
April night I dream Khmara and raw materials.
As if to squat warm up
I sat down in front of our maple dawn fire.
ABOUT, as I it from the crow's nest of eggs,
Clambering on twigs, stealing!
All the same is my only weapon he now, from the top of the green?
Still only weapon strong his bark?

And you, favourite,
Faithful skewbald dog?!
Old age did you become blind vizgliv
And roam around the yard, sagging tail dragging,
forgetting flair, where the doors and where the barn.
ABOUT, how dear to me all the leprosy,
When, the mother styanuv loaf of bread,
Biting her we're on time,
Not a bit of each other not to bury.

I'm still the same.
I heart the same.
As cornflowers in the rye, bloom face eyes.
Ceiling styhov zlachenыe mat,
I want to tell you a gentle.

Good night!
You all a good night!
Otzvenela by grass sumerok zari hair ...
Today I would like to very
Piss out of the window the moon.

blue light, a light blue!
In this blue even die is not sorry.
Well, what, that I seem cynical,
Trailers for the ass lantern!

Old, kind, crocked Pegasus,
Eh I need your soft trot?
I came, as a harsh master,
Sing and glorify rats.
Baska my, like August,
Pouring turbulent hair wine.

I want to be a yellow sail
In the country, where we are sailing.

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Anna Akhmatova
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