Текст песни Есенин Сергей - Чёрный человек

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, alcohol showered the brains.

My head flaps its ears like a bird's wings.
Her legs can no longer loom on her neck.
Black man, black, black
A black man sits on my bed,
The black man keeps me awake all night.

Black man runs his finger over the nasty book
And, nasal over me, like over a deceased monk,
Reads me the life of some scoundrel and a bum
Catching up on longing and fear.

Black man
Black, black!

"Listen, listen, - he mutters to me, -
There are many wonderful thoughts and plans in the book.
This person lived in the country
The most disgusting thugs and charlatans.

In December, in that country, snow is clear to the devil,
And snowstorms wind up merry spinning wheels.
There was a man that adventurer,
But the highest and best brand.

He was graceful, besides, a poet,
Though with a small, but grasping strength,
And some woman, more than forty years old,
He called him a nasty girl and his sweetheart.

Happiness, he said, is dexterity of mind and hand.
All awkward souls are always known for the unfortunate.
It's nothing that much anguish
They bring broken and deceitful gestures.

In thunderstorms, in storms, in everyday coldness,
With bereavements and when you are sad
Seeming smiling and simple -
The highest art in the world. "

"Black man! You don't dare that!
You don't live in the service of a diver.
What do I care about the life of a scandalous poet.
Please read and tell others. "

The black man is staring at me.
And the eyes are covered with blue vomit, -
Like he wants to tell me that I'm a crook and a thief
So shamelessly and brazenly robbed 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, alcohol showered the brains.

The night is frosty. The stillness of the crossroads.
I am alone at the window, I am not expecting a guest or a friend.
The whole plain is covered with loose and soft lime,
And the trees, like horsemen, gathered in our garden.

Somewhere a night ominous bird is crying.
Wooden horsemen sow a hoofed thud.
Here again this black one sits on my chair,
He lifted his top hat and casually threw back his coat.

“Listen, listen!” He wheezes, looking into my face,
He himself is leaning closer and closer.
I have not seen that any of the scoundrels
So unnecessarily and stupidly suffered from insomnia.

Oh, suppose I was mistaken, for today is the moon.
What else does a dope-drunk Mirik need?
Maybe "she" will secretly come with thick thighs,
And will you read your dead languid lyrics?

Oh, I love poets! Funny people.
In them I always find a story familiar to my heart, -
Like a long-haired freak to a pimply student
Talking about the worlds, sexual exhaustion.

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,
Yellow-haired, with blue eyes ...

And now he became an adult, besides, a poet,
Though with a small, but grasping strength,
And some woman, more than forty years old,
He called him a nasty girl and his cute "

"Black man! You are a very bad guest.
This fame has been spreading about you for a long time. "
I'm furious, furious and my cane is flying
Straight to his face, to the bridge of his nose ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The month has died, the dawn turns blue in the window.
Oh, you night! What are you, the night, you covered?
I'm standing in a top hat. No one is with me!
I'm alone ... And a broken mirror ...