Black Man (Черный человек, С.А.Есенин)

My dear dear friend,
I'm deeply sick and tired,
I'm unaware of the origin of this pain.
Perhaps it is wind
Whistling over deserted and lonely meadow,
Or some acohol pours in my mind
Like September rain.

My head is flapping my ears,
Like a bird with its wings.
It has no powers to bear
Weary legs till the end.
Black man,
Black man, black man...
Black man is sitting down on my bed.
Black man, black man, black man
Does not let peace in my head.

Black man
Is moving his finger along the lines of some pages,
In height I hear his nasal voice
Mourning over me in funerals rythms
Of a life of some rascal and swindler,
Depressing my soul with deep inside fright.

Black man,
Black man, black man...
"Here it is, listen up,
He murmurs in silence,
This book is full of tremendous
Ideas and plans.
This man used to live
In a country
Of the most disgusting
Biggies and quacks.

In that country December
Covers ground with devilish white snow hood,
Blizzards blow their spinning wheels in the air.
That man was a risky adventurer,
Though his play was as high as good.

He was a gentelman,
And a poet indeed,
He had some tenacious grip
For his living.
And a woman of
Forty-odd age,
He called a bad girl
And his little sweetie.

He used to say:
"Happiness is the trick of your mind
And hands.
All awkward souls are famous for being unhappy.
It means nothing,
That many tortures and pain
Are caused with false and uneven gestures.
In tempests and lightnings,
In everyday bore,
In the hardest times
When you are all broken,
To look calm and plain as it goes,
Is the highest mastership on the bygones.

"Black man!
Don't you do that!
You are not a frogman
To disclose some dirty secrets.
I have nothing to do
With a scandalous man,
You'd better read to others
About his actions."

The black man
Stares at me in the face,
And his eyes get covered
With some blue whitish vomit,
As if he's gonna tell me
I'm a thief and a rogue,
Without any shame and conscience
Having robbed some person.

My dear dear friend,
I'm deeply sick and tired,
I'm unaware of the origin of this pain.
Perhaps it is wind
Whistling over deserted and lonely meadow
Or some acohol pours in my mind
Like September rain.

Night is frosty...
Crossroads are quiet in silence outside...
I'm standing alone by the window in darkness,
No guest or friend is expected tonight.
The smooth plain is covered
With pouring soft chalky lime,
Trees like riders have bunched up
In our garden in sight.

There sound distant cries
Of a night evil birdie.
Wooden horsemen
Are breaking silence with horseshoe knocks.
Here's again, that black man,
In my chair is squirming,
Having risen his top hat,
And moving aside his frock.

"Hey, listen up! -
He wheezes up in my face,
Bending closer and closer forward.
I have never seen
Any villian ahead
Has suffered of insomnia
With such absurd torments.

Let's admit, I'm wrong!
There's a moon up tonight.
What more do you need
For your precious dreams in eternity?
Perhaps she would secretly come
With her thick hips tonight
And you would make her listen your
Dull and exhausted poetry?

I'm fond of the poets!
They are such a fun.
It's the same old story
Of people and their sin follies.
Like a long-haired freak
Seduces a pimply student for the night
Pretending to think of the sky,
Though feeling just horny.

I've got neither idea, nor any recall,
Of a land in a faraway village,
Somewhere up in Kaluga
Or probably even in Ryazan,
Some boy with blue eyes and blond curlies was born
In a family of peasant farmers.

He became older,
And a poet indeed.
His had some tenacious grip
For his living.
And a woman of
Forty-odd age,
He called a bad girl
And his little sweetie."

Black man!
You are a wretched guest!
Your fame is widely spread
In all ages!
In fury and rage
I throw my walking stick
Through the room
Into his old squezzie.

...Moon is over.
Dawn is breaking upon me with early blue light.
What a night!
Why is that night meant to ruin me?
I'm up with my top hat,
No stranger inside.
I'm all alone...
And the mirror is broken...