Обожаю эту поэму.. Друг мой, друг мой, Я...

I love this poem ..

     My friend my friend
     I am very, very sick.
     I do not know where this pain came from.
     Whether the wind is whistling
     Over the empty and deserted field,
     Just like a grove in September
     Showers alcohol in the brain.

     My head waves its ears
     Like a bird wings.
     On her neck in the night
     Lost more to incapable.
     Black man,
     Black, black
     Black man
     He sits down on my bed
     Black man
     Sleep keeps me up all night.

     Black man
     Leads a finger on a vile book
     And nasal over me
     As above the deceased monk,
     Reads my life
     Some kind of scoundrel and backdoor,
     Driving on the soul of longing and fear.
     Black man
     Black, black!

     "Listen, listen, -
     He mutters to me, -
     In the book many beautiful
     Thoughts and plans.
     This person
     Lived in the country
     Most disgusting
     Thugs and charlatans.

     In December in that country
     The snow before the devil is clean
     And blizzards give birth
     Funny spinning wheels.
     There was a man that adventurer
     But the highest
     And the best brand.

     He was graceful
     Besides, the poet
     Though a little
     But with gritty power,
     And some woman
     Forty-odd years
     Called a nasty girl
     And my sweetheart.

     Happiness, he said,
     There is a dexterity of mind and hands.
     All awkward souls
     For the unfortunate are always known.
     It's nothing,
     What a lot of torment
     Bring broken
     And false gestures.

     In thunderstorms, in a storm
     Into everyday life
     With heavy losses
     And when you feel sad
     To seem smiling and simple -
     The highest art in the world. "

     "Black man!
     You do not dare it!
     You're not in the service
     You live a diver.
     What am I up to
     The scandalous poet.
     Please others
     Read and tell. "

     Black man
     Looks at me point blank.
     And eyes are covering
     Blue vomiting, -
     As if she wants to tell me
     I'm a crook and a thief
     So shameless and brazen
     Robbed someone.
     . . . . . . . . . . . .

     My friend my friend
     I am very, very sick.
     I do not know where this pain came from.
     Whether the wind whistles
     Over the empty and deserted field,
     Just like a grove in September
     Showers alcohol in the brain.

     The night is frosty.
     Quiet rest of the intersection.
     I am alone at the window
     I’m not waiting for a guest or friend.
     The whole plain is covered
     Loose and soft lime,
     And the trees, like horsemen,
     Gathered in our garden.

     Somewhere crying
     Nightly sinister bird.
     Wooden riders
     Sow hooves.
     Here again, this black
     She sits on my chair,
     Lifting your top hat
     And throwing off casually a frock coat.

     "Listen, listen! -
     He wheezes, looking into my face,
     Himself getting closer
     And bends closer. -
     I have not seen anyone
     From scoundrels
     So unnecessary and stupid
     Suffered from insomnia.

     Oh, let's make a mistake!
     After all, now the moon.
     What else is needed
     Into the napped world of myrik?
     Maybe with thick thighs
     Secretly come "she"
     And you will read
     Your dead languid lyrics?

     Ah, I love poets!
     Funny people.
     I always find in them
     History, familiar to the heart, -
     How to pimply a female student
     Long haired freak
     Talking about worlds
     Sexual expiration of languor.

     I don’t know, I don’t remember
     In one village,
     Maybe in Kaluga,
     Or maybe in Ryazan,
     There lived a boy
     In a simple peasant family,
     Yellow hair
     With blue eyes...

     And so he became an adult,
     Besides, the poet
     Though small,
     But with gritty power,
     And some woman
     Forty-odd years
     He called a naughty girl
     And my sweet "

     "Black man!
     You are a very good guest.
     It's glory a long time ago
     It's about you. "
     I'm furious, furious,
     And my cane flies
     Straight to his face
     In the nose ...
     . . . . . . . . . . . . .

     ... the month has died,
     Blue in the window dawn.
     Oh you night!
     What did you do with the night?
     I'm standing in a top hat.
     No one is with me.
     I am alone...
     And a broken mirror ...

     November 14, 1925

Sergey Yesenin "The Black Man"