So it happened and please don't swear.
I'm a not a word dealer now.
My poor head - it's too hard to bear
And bent-down is my golden brow.

No love for no country, no town.
How could I feel it that time?
I will leave. With a beard grown
I will tramp o'er the land of mine.

I'll forget my books and my poems,
Hang a bag on shoulders, well trimmed.
'Cause a vagabond on his roads
Hears much better songs of the wind.

I will stink like onion and turnip
And abusing the dusk as it goes
I will fool around, staying fornent,
Sniffling loudly with my nose.

And I don't need a fortune better
Just to listen how a blizzard roars.
'Cause without freaks like the latter
I'm unable to live on earth.

Íå ðóãàéòåñü. Òàêîå äåëî!
Íå òîðãîâåö ÿ íà ñëîâà.
Çàïðîêèíóëàñü è îòÿæåëåëà
Çîëîòàÿ ìîÿ ãîëîâà.

Íåò ëþáâè íè ê äåðåâíå, íè ê ãîðîäó,
Êàê æå ñìîã ÿ å¸ äîíåñòè?
Áðîøó âñ¸. Îòïóùó ñåáå áîðîäó
È áðîäÿãîé ïîéäó ïî Ðóñè.

Ïîçàáóäó ïîýìû è êíèãè,
Ïåðåêèíó çà ïëå÷è ñóìó,
Îòòîãî ÷òî â ïîëÿõ çàáóëäûãå
Âåòåð áîëüøå ïî¸ò, ÷åì êîìó.

Ïðîâîíÿþ ÿ ðåäüêîé è ëóêîì
È, òðåâîæà âå÷åðíþþ ãëàäü,
Áóäó ãðîìêî ñìîðêàòüñÿ â ðóêó
È âî âñ¸ì äóðàêà âàëÿòü.

È íå íóæíî ìíå ëó÷øåé óäà÷è,
Ëèøü çàáûòüñÿ è ñëóøàòü ïóðãó,
Îòòîãî ÷òî áåç ýòèõ ÷óäà÷åñòâ
ß ïðîæèòü íà çåìëå íå ìîãó.