Poem by Sergej Esenin:

I have only one game left:
Fingers in mouth—a stormy whistle.
My fame roams from mouth to mouth:
A shameless scandalist and a rascal.
Ah, truly a pointless loss!
Life has plenty of such defeats.
Shame on me—I trusted in God,
Pain for me—I’ve been left godless.
The past holds a golden longing
And the present burns it in darkness.
That’s why I delight in scandals and wonders,
I want to spark even more fire.
The poet receives gifts, caresses, and blows,
This brand is centuries-old—like a hive, like a trap…
The pale rose with a toad—
I, the fool, tried to wed them fast.
My dreams never turned into life,
The days—rose nectar beneath clouds.
While the soul kept devils from the door,
The angels had made it their nest.
For this intoxicated rapture,—
Taking a few steps toward the grave,
I ask, in the final minute,
All those I leave behind for a prayer:
For my late sins,
For betrayals of every vice—
Just lay me there under icons,
Let me die beneath Russian icons…