Текст песни Горшенев Алексей - Сергей Есенин - Черный человек

My friend, my friend,
I am very, very sick.
I do not know where this pain.
Whether the wind whistles
Over the empty and deserted field ,
Eh , how grove in September ,
Showers brains alcohol.

My head waving ears,
As the wings of a bird.
Her legs around his neck
Looms large could not stand .
Black man
Black, black,
black man
On the bed with me sits ,
black man
Sleep keeps me up all night.

black man
Drives a finger on the vile book
And nasal me,
As over the dead monk ,
Reads my life
Some scoundrel and profligate ,
Surges per anguish and fear.
black man
Black, black ...

& quot; Listen, listen -
He muttered to me -
The book contains many beautiful
Thoughts and plans.
this person
Resided in the country
most heinous
Thunder and charlatans.

In December, in the country
Snow to clean the devil ,
And blizzard give birth
Funny spinning wheel.
Was a man of the adventurer,
But the highest
And the best brands .

He was graceful ,
To that poet,
Even with a small ,
But uhvatistoy strength,
And some woman ,
Forty-odd years ,
Called bad girl
And his miloyu & quot ;.

& quot; Happiness, - he said -
There agility of mind and hands.
All awkward soul
For accidents always known.
It's nothing ,
What a lot of anguish
bring broken
And false gestures.

In thunderstorms, storms,
In worldly styn ,
Bereavement
And when you're sad ,
Smiling and seem simple -
The highest in the world of art & quot ;.

& quot; black man !
Do not you dare it!
You're not in the service
Vodolazova live .
What am I up to life
Scandalous poet.
Please other
Read and tell & quot ;.

black man
He looks straight at me .
And his eyes are covered
Blue vomiting .
As if to tell me
What I crook and a thief ,
So shamelessly and brazenly
Robbed someone.

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

My friend, my friend,
I am very, very sick.
I do not know where this pain.
Whether the wind whistles
Over the empty and deserted field ,
Eh , how grove in September ,
Showers brains alcohol.

Frosty night ...
Quiet quiet intersection.
I am alone at the window ,
Neither the guest nor the other forward .
The whole plain is covered
Friable and soft lime ,
And the trees , as horsemen ,
Gathered in our garden.

Where is crying
Night ominous bird.
wooden riders
Sow kopytlivy knock.
Here again, the black
On my chair sets,
Lifting his top hat
And carelessly throwing his coat .

& quot; Listen, listen ! -
He croaks , looking me in the face,
Himself closer
And closer klonitsya.-
I did not see anyone
of scoundrels
So unnecessary and stupid
Insomniacs .

Oh , say, wrong !
Because now the moon .
What needs to be more
Laden with slumber Myrick ?
Maybe with thick thighs
Secretly come & quot; it & quot ;,
And you read
His dead languid lyrics?

Oh , I love poets !
Funny people .
They always find me
History , the familiar heart ,
How pimply girl students
long-haired freak
Talks about worlds
Genital bleeding languor .

I do not know , I do not remember
In one village ,
Maybe in Kaluga,
Maybe in Ryazan
there lived a boy
In a peasant family ,
yellow-haired ,
With blue eyes ...

And so he became an adult,
To that poet,
Even with a small ,
But uhvatistoy strength,
And some woman ,
Forty-odd years ,
Called bad girl
And his miloyu & quot ;.

& quot; black man !
You wretched guest!
It has a long
Spreads about you & quot ;.
I am furious, furious ,
And flying my cane
Straight to face him,
In the nose ...

. . . . . . . . . .

... A month has died,
The window is blue dawn.
Oh , the night !
What are you , night, nakoverkala ?
I 'm standing in the cylinder .
Anyone with me not.
I am alone ...
And - a broken mirror ...