Sergei Yesenin is the singer of the Russian village, whose lyrics are inextricably linked to the nature of his native land. His poems are pictures of fields, forests, rivers, and skies, captured in words, filled with love, sadness, and a sense of a passing era. Nature is animated in Yesenin's poetry; it is not merely a backdrop for human life but a full-fledged participant in it, reflecting the poet's inner experiences. In these poems, one can smell the mown hay, hear the rustling of birches, and see golden autumn, forever imprinted in his unique poetic world. This collection is dedicated to precisely this—the beauty and tragedy of Russian nature as perceived by Sergei Yesenin.
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Birch
The white birch tree beneath my window is covered in snow, like silver. It has thrown off its light fur coat and stands, lost in thought, in silence, timidly. The golden patches on its branches tremble and, as if in a fairy tale, gaze into the heavens.
My fallen maple, my frozen maple...
My fallen maple, my frozen maple, you stand as if in a white oblivion. The last yellow leaf has been torn away by the wind, and you look sadly down the winter paths. A vicious blizzard swirls, the snow falls thickly, obscuring the paths to your heart. But within you, old maple, something bright lurks, a memory of spring, of the sun's warmth.
Evening
Look how quietly the evening burns out, In the crimson glow of bygone days. A gray haze rises above the fields, And the wind whispers something in the poplars. The fields have fallen asleep, filled with gold, And the river sleeps, hidden in the reeds. Only the stars in the clear sky have lit up, And are reflected in her eyes.
Autumn forest
The autumn forest, like an old tower, in golden and crimson lace. It stands, quiet and humble, in anticipation of the coming cold. A maple leaf, like a sunbeam, descends onto the wet grass. And in this sad, quiet distance, I feel a native beauty.
Rowan
The red rowan berries burn with fire in the cold haze of late autumn. Like drops of blood against a snowy backdrop, they evoke a bygone era of prose. And birds, bidding farewell to a warm land, flock to them to take a last berry, steeped in paradise, and fly away to a distant, southern sanctuary.
Fields
Fields, fields, boundless expanses, In them lies Russian freedom, and sadness, and silence. Here the free wind, like a wanderer, contends with the ears of grain bending to the bottom. Here it smells of bread, grass, and dew, And the song of a lark can be heard in the sky. Here the Russian heart finds peace, In its native land, in the boundless silence.
Sad willow
Above a quiet river, a sad willow bends its branches into the water's surface. It seems to weep for the beautiful past, for a youth that can never be regained. Its foliage, like the whisper of decay, reminds us of the end of time. But in this sadness there is charm, and a quiet reflection of vanishing scenes.
First snow
Lightly and quietly the snow falls, On the rain-weary earth. As if an angel had flapped his wings, And covered the world with his silver carpet. The fields turn white, as if in a winter fairy tale, And the forest stands, in a lace attire. And the heart freezes in silence, Before this beauty, unexpected and familiar.
Sunset
The sunset blazes with a crimson glow, in the last rays of the fading day. A misty shroud spreads over the field, and the world slowly, silently falls asleep. The birds have fallen silent, all sounds have faded, only the wind whispers in the grass, barely breathing. And in this sadness, in this silence, I feel Russia's soul, unearthly, fresh.
Winter road
A winter road, a white ribbon, winds between fields, into the distant distance. Like fate, winding and fleeting, it carries me away into melancholy and sorrow. A horse in a sleigh, treading softly, leads me through snowy hills. And the Russian heart, sighing in sadness, seeks peace in the winter silence.