IRC-Galleria

Sergei Esenin

Hey there, Russia, mother country,
Cottages in icon guise...
Never-ending land of wonder,
Vistas blue that suck the eyes.
Like a passing holy pilgrim
On your fields I turn my gaze,
On the outskirts of poor villages
Rustling poplars pine and fade.
Smelling of sweet honey and apples
Churches celebrate the Lord
And the sounds of festive dancing
Fill the fields and meadows broad.
Off into the open country
Down a beaten path I run
And to meet me, light as catkins,
Peals of girlish laughter come.
If the heavenly host should beg me:
"Come to live in heaven above!"
I shall say: "Don't give me heaven
But the Russia that I love."
1914