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

from Esenin

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

You will not beat as you did before,
O my heart, touched by a hint of 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' riot and the senses' flood.

Now I've become less lavish 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 of us are transient on earth,
Down copper leaves from maples fly...
Blessed for ever be all those,
Who have come to bloom and die.

1921—2021.