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 tempt 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 all are mortal in this world,
Softly maples rain with copper leaves…
May all that be ever blessed what
Comes to blossom and decease.
1921—2021.