I have no regrets, nor words, nor tears.
Everything will pass, as the white fog from the branches of the apple.
dry in a golden decadence
I will never young.
Even my heart touched by frost
stopped beating as it once was.
And this country of birches, the Indian
no longer appeals to me, walking barefoot.
Spirit rover, now rare
circles the fire of my lips.
Where are you, the freshness of the past,
glowing eyes, full of impetuous senses!
Now, almost, I did not want. Yet life,
that if I did not dream of you again and again?
was like a spring morning in a sound
me to go around on a pink horse.
Everybody in this world voted at the end. Sweetly sad
of copper maple ... But then
chiamiamoci happy, blessed forever,
of being born to bloom and die.
(Sergei A. Esenin - 1922)
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