Ordinary finds

Sergei Yesenin, young Russian poet, killed himself in drunken despair at age 30 in 1925…

It”s sad to look at you, my love,

And it”s so painful to remember!

It seems,  the only thing we have

Is tint of willow in September.

 

Somebody”s lips have outworn

Your warmth and body trepidation,

As if the rain was drizzling down

The soul, that stiffened in congestion.

 

Well, let it be! I do not dread.

I have some other joyous gala.

There”s nothing left for me except

For brown dust and grizzly colour.

 

I”ve been unable, to my rue,

To save myself, for smiles or any.

The roads that have been walked are few

Mistakes that have been made are many.

 

With funny life and funny split

So it has been and will be ever.

The grove with birch-tree bones  in it

Is like a graveyard, well I never!

 

Likewise, we”ll  go to our doom

And fade, like callers of the garden.

In winter flowers never bloom,

And so we shouldn”t grieve about them.

 

1923 

(via gluestick)

Posted at 10:42pm.