Есенин Сергей - Чёрный человек
текст песни

My friend, my friend, I am very, very sick.
I don’t know where this pain came from.
Either the wind whistles over an empty and deserted field,
Either, like a grove in September, crumbles an alcohol.

My head waves my ears like a bird with wings.
She loomed more on her neck with a noise.
Black man, black, black,
Black man on the bed sits down to me,
Black man does not give me all night.

Black man runs a finger on the vile book
And, nasal over me, like over the deceased monk,
Reads me the life of some kind of scurvy and zabuldygi,
Having shouting to the soul longing and fear.

Black man
Black, black!

“Listen, listen,” he mutters me, “
The book has many beautiful thoughts and plans.
This man lived in the country
The most disgusting smashed and charlatans.

In December, in that country, snow is clean to the devil,
And the snowstorms start funny spinning wheels.
There was a man that adventurer
But the highest and best brand.

He was elegant, at that, the poet
At least with a small, but consistent force,
And some woman, more than forty years old,
He called a bad girl and his sweet.

Happiness, ”he said, is the dexterity of mind and hands.
All awkward souls are always known for the unfortunate.
It's nothing that a lot of torment
Bring broken and false gestures.

In thunderstorms, in storms, in everyday shaging,
In severe losses and when you are sad,
Seem smiling and simple -
The highest art in the world. "

"Black man! You do not dare it!
You don’t live divers in service.
What is to me before the life of a scandalous poet.
Please read and tell others. "

A black man looks at me point blank.
And the eyes are covered with blue vomit,-
As if he wants to tell me that I am a crook and a thief
So shamelessly and arrogantly disinfected someone.
. . . . . . . . . . .

My friend, my friend, I am very, very sick.
I don’t know where this pain came from.
Either the wind whistles over an empty and deserted field,
Either, like a grove in September, crumbles an alcohol.

The night is frosty. The rest of the intersection.
I am alone at the window, neither a guest nor I wait.
The whole plain is covered with loose and soft lime,
And the trees, like riders, gathered in our garden.

Somewhere the night ominous bird cries.
Wooden horsemen sow a hoofing knock.
Here again this black on my chair sits down,
Raising his cylinder and throwing off a casually frock coat.

“Listen, listen!” He wheezes, looking into my face,
Himself is closer and closer.
I did not see any of the scoundrels
So unnecessary and stupidly suffered from insomnia.

Ah, let's say, mistaken! After all, now the moon.
What else is needed for a dense of a dock?
Maybe with thick thighs, "she" will come secretly,
And will you read your dead languid lyrics?

Ah, I love poets! Funny people.
I always find a story in them, a friend of my heart,-
Like a pursuit of a long -haired freak
He speaks of worlds, sexual expired.

I don’t know, I don’t remember in one village,
Maybe in Kaluga, or maybe in Ryazan,
The boy lived in a simple peasant family,
Yellowish, with blue eyes ...

And now he became an adult, at that, the poet,
At least with a small, but consistent force,
And some woman, more than forty years old,
He called a bad girl and his sweet "

"Black man! You are a preservation guest.
This glory has been spreading about you for a long time. "
I am furious, furious, and my cane flies
Directly to his face, to the nose ...
. . . . . . . . . .

The month has died, the dawn turns blue into the window.
Oh, you, night! What are you, night, subsidized?
I'm standing in the cylinder. There is no one with me!
I am alone ... and a broken mirror ...