Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices

Sergey Yesenin

Translated by Alex Sitnitsky

Farewell, my friend, and take it easy.

You are in my heart, my dear. Our odd

But predestined parting and the autumn’s withering

Promise the reunion afterward.

Farewell, my friend, no words, no crying

Don’t be sad, and, please, don’t wrinkle your brows.

There is nothing new — when one’s life ends with dying.

But and life itself is not a novelty, of course.

The golden grove already has ceased talking

In the berches, merry language. In the sky

The cranes are sadly flying, slowly flocking

With no regrets for anyone behind.

Who’s there to regret? For every man’s a rambler.

He goes by, comes in, and leaves his home still lone.

Only the hemp-field will dream of him in slumber,

With the moon over the pale blue pond.

I’m standing here alone, amidst a bare plain,

The wind takes cranes away, and while they pass

I’m thinking of my youth, my gleeful, reckless bane.

But I’m not sorry for what happened in the past.

I don’t regret the years so carelessly squandered

I don’t regret the lilac bloom of soul.

The rowan’s red bonfire is burning in the garden,

But it can not warm anyone at all.

The rowan-berries won’t be burned by autumn fire,

The yellow grass won’t perish when it fades.

And as a tree sheds leaves, I’m tired,

I drop sad words, foreseeing joyless fate.

And if the wind of time over the foliage walking,

Will sweep them all in useless piles. Say -

The golden grove already has ceased talking

The lovely language died away.