My friend, my friend,
I am very, very ill.
I don\'t know where comes from. this pain.
Either the wind whistles
Over the empty, deserted field,
Or, like a grove in September,
Alcohol showers my brain.
A frosty night...
The quiet peace of a crossroads.
I am alone at the window,
Awaiting neither guest nor friend.
The entire plain is covered
With loose, soft lime calx,
And the trees, like horsemen
Have gathered in our garden.
Somewhere
A inauspicious place night bird is crying.
The wooden horsemen
Sow a clattering hoof.
There goes that black one again
Sitting down in my chair,
Lifting his top hat
And casually throwing back his frock coat.
“Listen, listen! —
He wheezes, looking me in the face,
He himself gets closerly
And leans closer. —
“I have never seen ealse
Reprobate,
Suffer from insomnia so stupidly and needlessly.
Ah, let\'s say I was mistaken!
After all, it\'s moonlight today.
What else does
This drowsy little world need?
Perhaps, with thick thighs,
She will secretly come inway
And you will read
Your, languid lyricis deed.
Ah, I love poets!
Amusing people.
In them I always find
A story familiar to my heart,
Like a long-haired freak
Speaks of worlds to a pimply female student,
And drainig from sexual exhaustion for start.
I don\'t know,
I don\'t remember,
In a certain country,
Pwerhaps in Kaluga,
Or perhaps in Ryazan,
There lived a boy
In a simple peasant family,
Yellow-haired,
With light blue eye blaze on.
And now he\'s grown up
And also a poet middle sort,
Although with a small,
But tenacious power,
And some woman,
Over forty years old
He called an infamous girlie
And his sweetie dear.\"
\"Black man!
You\'re a nasty guest!
This fame has long been spreading
About you.\"
I\'m furious, enraged,
And my cane flies most
Straight to his face
At the bridge of his nose hooking…
...The crescent has died,
Dawn is shining blue through the window.
Oh you,night!
What have you night just messed!
I\'m standing here in a high-hat ,
No one\'s with me now,
Ah, I am alone…
And—a broken mirror-glass...