I go through the valley. Cap is put on my head,
There is a kid-glove put on my hand as well.
Somewhere far the pink fields are shining steady,
And the river with wide flow pours blue water.
I am a reckless guy and I need nothing from life.
Just to listen to songs and sing them by heart,
Just let the light coldness flow to please me fine then,
And my young spine be firm as long as it can.
I'll go to the road, then step to the hill feet -
How many there are men and women so bright!
Something's whispered by rakes, something's whistled by scythes...
"Hey, the poet, listen, weak you are or not?
Ground is far sweeter than the dreaming in sky.
You should like to work as you like the valleys.
Weren't you from country? Weren't you like we are?
Swing around the scythe, show us your big fierce."
Oh, the feather's not rake, and the scythe's not a pen -
But by scythe I can write awesome strings as well.
Under the spring sun here, under the spring clouds
They are read by every one passes right there.
I put off to hell my pretty English suit here.
Well, give me a scythe, I will show you my work -
Am I not of your kind, am I not close to you,
Am I not high valuing the honour of countryside?
I don't care the holes, I don't mind hillocks either.
It's nice to work here in the morning fog
Make by scythe the strings around the hills to the,
Horse and ram could read them and be glad at all.
In these string is song lives, there is a word as well.
That's why I am glad to think when I'm not at work,
That they can be read by every cow around,
So it can give back warm milk for dear home.
31.10.17
http://www.museum-esenin.ru/tvorchestvo/1167
