Poor, poor peasant parents!
You must have become ugly,
You fear God
And the marshy entrails.
Could you at least understand
That your son in Russia
Is the greatest poet!
Did your heart not freeze
For his life,
When he soaked his bare feet
In the autumn puddles?
Now he walks instead in a top hat
And patent leather shoes.
But the ancient fervor
Of the country mischief-maker still lives in him, diary of a hooligan. esenin.