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 autumnís withering
Promise the reunion afterward.
Farewell, my friend, no words, no crying
Donít be sad, and, please, donít wrinkle your brows.
There is nothing new ó when oneís 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.
Whoís there to regret? For every manís 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.
Iím standing here alone, amidst a bare plain,
The wind takes cranes away, and while they pass
Iím thinking of my youth, my gleeful, reckless bane.
But Iím not sorry for what happened in the past.
I donít regret the years so carelessly squandered
I donít regret the lilac bloom of soul.
The rowanís red bonfire is burning in the garden,
But it can not warm anyone at all.
The rowan-berries wonít be burned by autumn fire,
The yellow grass wonít perish when it fades.
And as a tree sheds leaves, Iím 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.