The Darkest Man

My friend, my friend,

I’m a very sick man.

I don’t know even where this sickness came from.

Whether the wind is whistling

Over an empty deserted field,

Whether because of drinking

My mind is getting worse.

My head flaps my ears

Like a bird flapping its wings.

My head on my neck

Cannot move anymore my legs.

The Darkman,

Darkest, darkest…

The Darkest Man

Sits down on my bed,

The Darkest Man

Keeps me up all the night.

The Darkest Man

Running his finger over the vile book

And, twanging above me,

Like monk over the dead,

He reads me the life

Of a some scoundrel and a drunkard,

Driving the soul to grief and dread.

The Darkman,

Darkest, darkest…

'Listen, listen, —

He mumbles to me, —

This book contains so

Marvelous thoughts and plans.

And that man

Lived in the land

Of the foulest

Malefactors and tricksters.

In that land in the winter

The snow is ghoulishly clear,

And the blizzards right there

All start to merrily knit.

This man also was an adventurer,

But of the highest

And superior marking.

He was graceful

And also poet,

With a modest,

But grasping force,

And he was calling

Some woman in her forties

A naughty little girl

And his sweetheart.

Happiness, he said,

Is sleight of mind and hands.

All awkward souls

For the unfortunates are known forever.

It is nothing

That many torments

Are brought by crippled

And deceitful gestures.

In the storms and in the tempests,

In worldly frost,

For bereavement and

When you are sad

To be smiley and mere —

It’s kind of ultimate art of whole world'.

'The Darkest Man!

You can’t dare it!

You don’t live in the service

Of marines.

I don’t care about the life

Of a scandalous poet.

Please you, read it and

Tell it to others'.

The Darkest Man

Looks at me with brow-beating glare.

And his eyes are covered

With the blackest vomit.

It’s like he wants to tell me

That I’m a crook and a thief,

Who so shamelessly and brazenly

Robbed someone…

My friend, my friend,

I’m a very sick man.

I don’t know even where this sickness came from.

Whether the wind is whistling

Over an empty deserted field,

Whether because of drinking

My mind is getting worse.

This night’s so chilling,

The silence falls down at the crossroads.

I’m alone at the window,

And not looking forward no friend, no guest.

The whole plain is covered

With friable and smooth lime,

And the trees like sinister riders

Came together in our garden.

Crying somewhere —

It’s a nocturnal ominous bird.

Wooden horsemen sow

The sound of hooves.

And again this Blackman

Sits down on my armchair,

Lifting up his top hat

And negligently throwed the coat.

'Listen, listen! —

He grunts and looks right into my face,

And himself he leans

Closer and closer. —

I haven’t seen anyone

From blackguards

So needless and stupidly

Suffered from sleeplessness.

Ah, suppose I was wrong!

It’s the moon, after all.

What else does

The drowsy myric need?

Maybe, secretly 'she' will come

With her stout and fleshy thighs?

And you will read

Your thoughtless languid lyrics.

Ah, I love our poets so much!

Hilarious people they are.

I always find a story in them

That is familiar to my heart, —

Like a longhaired creep

Talks 'bout worlds

To a pimpled female course student

Bleeding out with voluptuous languor.

I don’t know, I forgot,

In one village,

Maybe Kaluga,

Or maybe Ryazan,

The boy who lived

In a poor peasant family,

With fair hair

And blue eyes…

And he became mature

And also poet,

With a modest,

But grasping force,

And he was calling

Some woman in her forties

A naughty little girl

And his sweetheart'.

'The Darkest Man!

You are graceless guest.

This infamous fame 'bout you

Has been spreading all time'.

I’m furious after, by Jove,

And my cane goes straight

Into his snout,

Between the eyes…

…The Crescent’s dead,

Dawn is shining through the window…

The night had over!

Why did the night make this happen?

I’m standing in coat,

No one is with me.

I’m alone,

And the broken mirror…