ЧЕРНЫЙ ЧЕЛОВЕК Друг мой, друг мой, Я очень...

BLACK MAN

My friend, my friend, I am very, very sick. I don’t know where this pain came from. Either the wind whistles Over an empty and deserted field, Either as a grove in September, Alcohol is showered with brains. My head waves its ears, Like a bird's wings. On her neck legs Mayachat more incapable. Black man, Black, black, Black man On the bed sits down to me, The black man does not let me sleep all night. A black man Leads a finger on a vile book And, noshing at me, Like a deceased monk, Reads to me the life of Some scoundrel and backdoor, Catching on my soul longing and fear. Black man Black, black ... "Listen, listen, - he mutters to me, - In the book there are a lot of the most beautiful Thoughts and plans. This man lived in the country of the Most disgusting Thugs and charlatans. In December in that country Snow is clear to the devil, And snowstorms The spinning wheels were turned on. There was a man who was an adventurer, But of the highest And best brand. He was elegant, Besides a poet, Though with a small, But graceful force, And some woman, Forty-odd years old, He called a nasty girl And his sweet " “Happiness,” he said, “There is dexterity of mind and hands. All awkward souls For the unfortunate are always known. It's nothing, That many torments Bring broken and false gestures. In thunderstorms, in a storm, In everyday life, With heavy losses And when you sad, Seem smiling and simple - The highest art in the world. " "Black man! You do not dare this! You are not in the service. You live a diver. What do I care about the life of the Scandalous poet. Please read and tell others." Black man stares at me point blank. And the eyes are covered with blue vomit. As if he wants to tell me that I am a crook and a thief, So shamelessly and insolently robbed someone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My friend, my friend, I am very, very sick. I don’t know where this pain came from. Either the wind whistles Over an empty and deserted field, Either as a grove in September, Alcohol is showered with brains. The night is frosty ... Quiet crossroads. I am alone at the window, I am not waiting for a guest or friend. The whole plain is covered with Loose and soft lime, And the trees, like horsemen, have gathered in our garden. Somewhere a crying nightly sinister bird. Wooden riders Sow hoofed knock. Here again, this black one sits down on my chair, Raising his cylinder and Throwing off his frock coat casually. “Listen, listen!” He wheezes, looking into my face, He’s getting closer and closer. “I didn’t see anyone from the scoundrels So unnecessarily and stupidly Suffered from insomnia. Ah, let’s say, it’s wrong! After all, the moon is now. but do you need a Mirika drunk by a nap? Maybe with thick thighs "She" will come secretly, And you will read Your dead languid lyrics? Ah, I love poets! Funny people. I always find in them History, familiar to my heart, Like a pimple student Long-haired student freak Talking about worlds, Sexual istom expiring. 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-haired, With blue eyes ... And so he became an adult, Besides a poet, Though with a small, But graceful force, And some woman, Forty-odd years old, He called a nasty girl And my dear. " "Black man! You are a nasty guest! This is a glory for a long time About you." I am furious, furious, And my cane flies Directly to his face, In the bridge of the nose .... . . . . . . . . . ... The month has died, Dawn turns blue in the window. Oh you night! What did you reassure at night? I'm standing in a top hat. No one is with me. I'm alone ... And - a broken mirror ...