My old mother"s sorrow anew.
Like a golden croaker the moon
Lies prostrate on the water tranquil.
Grizzly hair, like apple-tree bloom,
In my father"s beard will spill.
I will not come back readily, and
Singing blizzard will ring on and on.
Maples guard the blue Russian land,
Standing there, one-legged, all alone.
And I know that it's joyous for those
Who've been kissing the rain of the leaves.
For the maple and I, we both
Are alike, in the head, that is.
1918 Sergey Yesenin