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