“The Back Streets of Moscow”

The farmhouse is lonely without me
And my old dog is gone from the door
God sent me to die in the back streets
And I can't go home anymore.

I'm in love with this overdone city,
Though it's dirty and falling apart;
It reminds me of stories at bedtime,
And the street sounds hurt my heart.

I go out for a fix after midnight,
And the fix that I'm after is fame,
So I head for a bar in the back streets
Where everyone knows my name.

It's noisy and dirty and drunken,
But nobody there drinks alone --
The bartenders buy me a vodka,
And the hookers cry at my poems.

My heart beats faster and faster,
And I say to the drunk by the door --
"I'm like you, my life's a disaster,
And I can't go home any more."

Oh the farmhouse is lonely without me
And my old dog is gone from the door
God sent me to die in the back streets
And I can't go home anymore.

Sergei Yesenin
(Translated from the Russian by Paul Schmidt)
(From page 87 of the December 4, 2006 issue of the New Yorker)