BLUE NIGHT
At the tomb of Yesenin
Soft as Rublev lines
the graying hair of the passing Slavs,
when the trees cry with purple leaves.
Blue forehead in the clay palm,
As if a blue-eyed poet
lost it on purpose
as loving this place.
Torches on the tables in a pale mood
and the moon sucks up their souls
to shine on girls’, blue brides’ heads.
From Anna of the snow, her long dress
the earth cherishes a moving spot.
Oh, if the hair could wave again …
But the demons of the night are brittle
and drunk,
their cruelty tends towards killing:
their blue eyes are melancholic.
Libros Libertad 