С. Есенин - Черный человек
текст песни

My friend, my friend,
I am very and very sick.
I myself do not know where this pain come from.
Whether the wind whistles
Over empty and deserted field
Then, like a grove in September,
Splash brains alcohol.

My head is magging ears,
As a bird wings.
Her neck
Rail more nemens.
Black man,
Black, black,
Black man
On the bed to me sits down
Black man
Sleep does not give me all night.

Black man
Leads a finger on the nasty book
And, hesitated by me,
As over the departed monk,
Reads me life
Some kind of coolness and zabuldigi,
Intruting a shower of longing and fear.
Black man
Black, black!

"Listen, listen, -
He mumbles me -
In the book a lot of the most beautiful
Things and plans.
This person
Lived in the country
The most disgusting
Ground and charlatans.

In December in that country
Snow before the devil is clean,
And snowstorms are planting
Cheerful strands.
There was a man that adventurer,
But the highest
And the best brand.

He was elegant,
To the poet
At least with a small
But grapted power
And some woman,
Forty years old,
Called a bad girl
And his cute.

Happiness, he said, -
There is an agility of mind and hands.
All awkward souls
For unfortunate are always known.
It's nothing,
What a lot of Muk.
Bring broken
And false gestures.

In a thunderstorm, in a storm,
In everyday smearing
With severe lumps
And when you are sad,
Seem smiling and simple -
The highest art in the world. "

"Black man!
You do not dare it!
You're not in service
You live diver.
What I'm up to life
Scandalous poet.
Please other
Read and tell. "

Black man
Looks at me in the emphasis.
And eyes are covered
Blue blaver, -
As if he wants to tell me
That I'm a rogue and a thief
So shameless and brazen
Rough someone.
. . . . . . . . . . . .

My friend, my friend,
I am very and very sick.
I myself do not know where this pain come from.
Whether the wind whistles
Over empty and deserted field
Then, like a grove in September,
Splash brains alcohol.

Frosty night.
Quiet intersection.
I'm one at the window,
Neither the guest nor a friend is waiting.
The whole plain is covered
Bulk and soft lime,
And trees like riders
Cut in our garden.

Somewhere crying
Night sinister bird.
Wooden riders
Sow hoofy knock.
Here again this black
On the chair my sits down
Raising your cylinder
And leaving a careless bit.

"Listen, listen! -
He scrolls, looking into my face,
Itself is getting closer
And closer is closer. -
I have not seen anyone
From scoundrels
So unnecessary and stupid
Suffered from insomnia.

Oh, put, I was wrong!
After all, today the moon.
What else need
Canna dreamed Mirika?
Maybe with thick chains
"She" will come secretly
And you will read
Does your dead languid lyrics?

Ah, I love poets!
Funny people.
I always find me
History, my heart, -
As a piping cruising
Long-haired freak
Speaks about the worlds
Sexual expired Istomy.

I do not know, I do not remember
In one village,
Maybe in Kaluga,
Maybe in Ryazan
Lived boy
In a simple peasant family
Yellow-haired
With blue eyes...

And he became adults,
To the poet
At least with a small
But grapted power
And some woman,
Forty years old,
Called a bad girl
And sorry "

"Black man!
You are a precompanic guest.
This is a glory long ago
About you spread. "
I am swearing, furious,
And my cane flies
Straight to his face
In the bridge ...
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

... a month died
Shines in the window dawn.
Oh, you, night!
What are you, night, skipped?
I stand in the cylinder.
No one with me.
I'm alone...
And broken mirror ...