S.Yesenin, May be it is late... - translation (rus.)
May be it is late, or may be early...
Anyway I didn't have a mind,
That I grew up to be real Don Juan,
As a poet, too light in his conduct.
What had happened? What's the real matter
Of me, bending at the other knees
Every day, and every day I'm shedding
All my pity to myself in feel
Of the bitterness of future bad betrayal...
All I wished - my heart would beat a little
In the simple and caressing manner.
In the lying eyes of girls what do I seek?
Hold me back, my feeling of contempt, you
Always was a patron, good in cheer.
All my soul's boiling in cold and blue
Is the rustling of the leaves of lilac.
And the lemon sunset lives in soul,
Almost all time - I hear the same
Through the mist. Don Juan, take up gaunlet,
For the feeling's freedom you should pay!
Calmly meeting a challenge, I'm aware,
That in any way I feel the same -
Honouring the storm of lilac flowering
Is just like the shiver in love state.
And that was, that really such happened
With me, bent to many knees
For the sake of feeling of the happiness,
Casting off the bitter treason feel.
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Comments about this poem (S.Yesenin, May be it is late... - translation (rus.) by Lyudmila Purgina )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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