I Don't Regret, Nor Call, Nor Cry Poem by Emil Sharafutdinov

from Esenin

I don't regret, nor call, nor cry,
All is to pass like apple-trees' white smoke.
Enfolded in the gold of fading, I
Shall not be young once more.

You will not beat on the way you go,
O my heart, affected by the cold,
And the land of birchen calico
Will not lure me to roam barefoot.

Rambling spirit! Now less, less often
You stir up the embers of my heart.
O my freshness long forgotten,
The eyes' mischief and the senses' flood.

Now I've become sedater in my longings,
O my life! Did I live or dream I did?
As if on a springtide loud morning
I have raced on a rose steed.

All, we are all transient on earth,
Softly maples shed the leaves of copper dye...
May forever blessed be all those,
Who have come to bloom and die.

1921—2021.