Sergei Yesenin - Soviet Rus': Verse. Analysis of the poem “Soviet Rus' With that sad joy that I remained alive

That hurricane has passed. Few of us survived.
There are no friendships at roll call for many.
I returned again to the orphaned land,
Which I haven't been to for eight years.

I don't know anyone here
And those who remembered have long forgotten.
And where my father's house once was,
Now there is ash and a layer of road dust.

And life is in full swing.
They're scurrying around me
Both old and young faces.
But I have no one to bow my hat to,
I don’t find shelter in anyone’s eyes.

And a swarm of thoughts pass through my head:
What's the homeland?
Are these really dreams?
After all, for almost everyone here I’m a gloomy pilgrim
God knows from what distant side.

And it's me!
I, a citizen of the village,
Which will be famous only for that,
That a woman once gave birth here
Russian scandalous piita.

You've already begun to fade a little,
Other young men sing different songs.
They will probably be more interesting -
It’s no longer a village, but the whole earth is their mother.”

Ah, homeland! How funny I have become.
A dry blush flies onto the sunken cheeks.
The language of my fellow citizens has become like a foreign language to me,
I'm like a foreigner in my own country.

This is what I see:
Sunday villagers
They gathered at the volost as if they were going to church.
With clumsy, unwashed speeches
They discuss their “live.”

It's already evening. Liquid gold plating
The sunset splashed the gray fields.
And bare feet, like heifers under the gate,
Poplars were buried in the ditches.

A lame Red Army soldier with a sleepy face,
Wrinkling my forehead in memories,
Tells important stories about Budyonny,
About how the Reds recaptured Perekop.

“We have him - this way and that way, -
This bourgeois... who... is in Crimea..."
And the maples wrinkle with the ears of their long branches,
And the women groan into the mute semi-darkness.

The peasant Komsomol is coming from the mountain,
And to the harmonica, playing zealously,
The propaganda of Poor Demyan is singing,
Announcing the valley with a cheerful cry.

This is how the country is!
Why the hell am I
Screamed in verse that I am friendly with the people?
My poetry is no longer needed here,
And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here either.

Well!
Sorry, dear shelter.
What I served you with, and with that I am satisfied.
Let them not sing to me today -
I sang when my land was sick.

I accept everything.
I take everything as is.
Ready to follow the beaten tracks.
I will give my whole soul to October and May,
But I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.

I won't give it into the wrong hands,
Not my mother, not my friend, not my wife.
Only she entrusted her sounds to me
And she just sang tender songs to me.

Bloom, young ones! And have a healthy body!
You have a different life, you have a different tune.
And I will go alone to unknown limits,
The rebellious soul has been pacified forever.

But even then
When in the whole planet
The tribal feud will pass,
Lies and sadness will disappear, -
I will chant
With the whole being in the poet
Sixth of the land
With a short name "Rus".

The painful and piercing cry of the poet’s soul is the text of Yesenin’s poem “Soviet Rus'”. Studied in literature lessons in the 11th grade, when the historical material is already familiar to schoolchildren, this work still often remains misunderstood, because the lyrical hero himself hesitates in his judgments. The poem is inspired by Yesenin’s arrival in the village in 1924. The trip made a contradictory impression on the poet. He is glad to see his native land again, to plunge into the thick of folk life and peasant labor. But the villagers cause him bewilderment and bitterness. They do not recognize the poet and are not interested in him (and he is sure that his village “will only be famous for the fact that here a woman once gave birth to a Russian scandalous piita”). They are not interested in poetry, preferring the inarticulate narratives of a sleepy soldier, the propaganda of Demyan Bedny and their illiterate conversations: “With clumsy, unwashed speeches they discuss their “live.” It is no coincidence that Yesenin uses the word “unwashed” in relation to speeches: he is shocked that centuries-old culture and melodious, apt folk speech have disappeared somewhere in such a short period of time.

Just starting to read the poem “Soviet Rus'” by Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin, we immediately see that the mood of the work is very sad, even tragic. But the poet is not ready to give up. He does not agree to give his lyre to what made people so alien to him. He does not agree to give up what he considers his destiny - “to sing with all his being in the poet the sixth part of the earth with the short name “Rus”.

That hurricane has passed. Few of us survived.
There are no friendships at roll call for many.
I returned again to the orphaned land,
Which I haven't been to for eight years.

I don't know anyone here
And those who remembered have long forgotten.
And where my father's house once was,
Now there is ash and a layer of road dust.

And life is in full swing.
They're scurrying around me
Both old and young faces.
But I have no one to bow my hat to,
I don’t find shelter in anyone’s eyes.

And a swarm of thoughts pass through my head:
What's the homeland?
Are these really dreams?
After all, for almost everyone here I’m a gloomy pilgrim
God knows from what distant side.

And it's me!
I, a citizen of the village,
Which will be famous only for that,
That a woman once gave birth here
Russian scandalous piita.

You've already begun to fade a little,
Other young men sing different songs.
They will probably be more interesting -
It’s no longer a village, but the whole earth is their mother.”

Ah, homeland! How funny I have become.
A dry blush flies onto the sunken cheeks.
The language of my fellow citizens has become like a foreign language to me,
I'm like a foreigner in my own country.

This is what I see:
Sunday villagers
They gathered at the volost as if they were going to church.
With clumsy, unwashed speeches
They discuss their “live.”

It's already evening. Liquid gold plating
The sunset splashed the gray fields.
And bare feet, like heifers under the gate,
Poplars were buried in the ditches.

A lame Red Army soldier with a sleepy face,
Wrinkling my forehead in memories,
Tells important stories about Budyonny,
About how the Reds recaptured Perekop.

“We have him - this way and that way, -
This bourgeois... who... is in Crimea..."
And the maples wrinkle with the ears of their long branches,
And the women groan into the mute semi-darkness.

The peasant Komsomol is coming from the mountain,
And to the harmonica, playing zealously,
The propaganda of Poor Demyan is singing,
Announcing the valley with a cheerful cry.

This is how the country is!
Why the hell am I
Screamed in verse that I am friendly with the people?
My poetry is no longer needed here,
And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here either.

Well!
Sorry, dear shelter.
What I served you with, and with that I am satisfied.
Let them not sing to me today -
I sang when my land was sick.

I accept everything.
I take everything as is.
Ready to follow the beaten tracks.
I will give my whole soul to October and May,
But I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.

I won't give it into the wrong hands,
Not my mother, not my friend, not my wife.
Only she entrusted her sounds to me
And she just sang tender songs to me.

Bloom, young ones! And have a healthy body!
You have a different life, you have a different tune.
And I will go alone to unknown limits,
The rebellious soul has been pacified forever.

But even then
When in the whole planet
The tribal feud will pass,
Lies and sadness will disappear, -
I will chant
With the whole being in the poet
Sixth of the land
With a short name “Rus”.

“Soviet Rus'” Sergei Yesenin

That hurricane has passed. Few of us survived.
There are no friendships at roll call for many.
I returned again to the orphaned land,
Which I haven't been to for eight years.

I don't know anyone here
And those who remembered have long forgotten.
And where my father's house once was,
Now there is ash and a layer of road dust.

And life is in full swing.
They're scurrying around me
Both old and young faces.
But I have no one to bow my hat to,
I don’t find shelter in anyone’s eyes.

And a swarm of thoughts pass through my head:
What's the homeland?
Are these really dreams?
After all, for almost everyone here I’m a gloomy pilgrim
God knows from what distant side.

And it's me!
I, a citizen of the village,
Which will be famous only for that,
That a woman once gave birth here
Russian scandalous piita.

You've already begun to fade a little,
Other young men sing different songs.
They will probably be more interesting -
It’s no longer a village, but the whole earth is their mother.”

Ah, homeland! How funny I have become.
A dry blush flies onto the sunken cheeks.
The language of my fellow citizens has become like a foreign language to me,
I'm like a foreigner in my own country.

This is what I see:
Sunday villagers
They gathered at the volost as if they were going to church.
With clumsy, unwashed speeches
They discuss their “live.”

It's already evening. Liquid gold plating
The sunset splashed the gray fields.
And bare feet, like heifers under the gate,
Poplars were buried in the ditches.

A lame Red Army soldier with a sleepy face,
Wrinkling my forehead in memories,
Tells important stories about Budyonny,
About how the Reds recaptured Perekop.

“We’ve already given him this way and that way,”
This bourgeois... who... is in Crimea..."
And the maples wrinkle with the ears of their long branches,
And the women groan into the mute semi-darkness.

The peasant Komsomol is coming from the mountain,
And to the harmonica, playing zealously,
The propaganda of Poor Demyan is singing,
Announcing the valley with a cheerful cry.

This is how the country is!
Why the hell am I
Screamed in verse that I am friendly with the people?
My poetry is no longer needed here,
And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here either.

Well!
Sorry, dear shelter.
What I served you with, and with that I am satisfied.
Let them not sing to me today -
I sang when my land was sick.

I accept everything.
I take everything as is.
Ready to follow the beaten tracks.
I will give my whole soul to October and May,
But I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.

I won't give it into the wrong hands,
Not my mother, not my friend, not my wife.
Only she entrusted her sounds to me
And she just sang tender songs to me.

Bloom, young ones! And have a healthy body!
You have a different life, you have a different tune.
And I will go alone to unknown limits,
The rebellious soul has been pacified forever.

But even then
When in the whole planet
The tribal feud will pass,
Lies and sadness will disappear,
I will chant
With the whole being in the poet
Sixth of the land
With a short name “Rus”.

Sergei Yesenin, like many poets of the early 20th century, received the October Revolution with enthusiasm. Unlike Mayakovsky, he did not ridicule the shortcomings of Soviet society and was not horrified, like Blok, by the bloody massacre that later became known as the civil war. As a native of the village, the poet was primarily interested in the question: what exactly will the revolution give to the ordinary peasant?

Having left for Moscow to become a real poet, Yesenin was only able to return to his native village of Konstantinovo in 1924. It was after this trip that the poem “Soviet Rus'” was written, thanks to which the author once again fell into disgrace. However, anticipating his imminent death, Yesenin no longer wanted to waste his time on trifles. Moreover, what he saw in his native village so amazed the author that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he became confused and doubted his work, which suddenly turned out to be of no use to anyone.

Returning to his homeland, the poet was amazed that among his fellow villagers there was practically not a single person he knew. “But I have no one to bow my hat to, I don’t find shelter in anyone’s eyes,” the poet noted. His father's house was burned and turned into a pile of ash, but no one paid attention to the expensively dressed man who for some reason stopped near the ashes, and no one recognized this lonely wanderer as a poet, who addressed most of his works to these simple and illiterate people, striving for a better life. “After all, for almost everyone here I am a gloomy pilgrim, God knows from what distant side,” exclaims the poet, gradually beginning to realize that all these years he has lived in some kind of illusory world, believing that his poems are precisely what ordinary peasants need, and unrefined intelligentsia.

Calling himself a citizen of the village, Yesenin realizes that his native Kosntantinovo will only be famous for the fact that a woman once gave birth here to a “scandalous Russian pet.” But, according to the author, no one will ever remember with what love and warmth he treated his native land, and how many wonderful poems were dedicated to the amazingly Russian nature, which inspired the poet’s creativity when he was forced to live in noisy, dusty and hectic Moscow . Now, the maples and poplars so beloved by the poet, together with enthusiastic local residents, listen to the story of the “sleepy Red Army soldier”, who describes how he beat the “bourgeois entogo” in the Crimea.

Watching this picture, Yesenin feels that he looks quite pathetic and funny. He notes that “the language of my fellow citizens has become like a stranger to me, in my own country I am like a foreigner.” And the worst thing is that the culprit of the “murder” of the original Russian language, smooth, figurative and beautiful, which the poet absorbed from childhood in his native village, is precisely the revolution. It was she who gave birth to the “clumsy speeches” of the proletariat, the rhymed agitations of Demyan Bedny, which “reveal the valley with a cheerful cry.”

Observing how the village is degrading, turning into a single Komsomol cell, the poet asks the question: “Why the hell did I scream in poetry that I am friendly with the people?” . Those peasants whom he sees in his village are alien to Yesenin. He does not understand their language, way of thinking and, most importantly, the goals for which they so easily abandoned their past, that original Russian culture on which the whole society rested.

Therefore, the poet asks his homeland for forgiveness and notes: “I accept everything as it is.” The poet is ready to come to terms with the revolution, with the obligatory May and November holidays that replaced Easter and Christmas, but notes: “but I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.” With this phrase, he emphasizes that he will never give up singing in his poems that primordial Rus', which, under the influence of time, suddenly turned into a sham and a kind of parody of the poet’s homeland, but this did not cease to be loved and dear to Yesenin.

That hurricane passed . There are few of us left .

There are no friendships at roll call for many.

I returned again to the orphaned land,

Which I haven't been to for eight years.

Here even the mill is a log bird

With only one wing, he stands with his eyes closed.

I don't know anyone here

And those who remembered have long forgotten.

And where my father's house once was,

Now there is ash and a layer of road dust.

And life is in full swing.

They're scurrying around me

Both old and young faces.

But I have no one to bow my hat to,

I don’t find shelter in anyone’s eyes.

And thoughts pass through my head:

What's the homeland?

Are these really dreams?

After all, for almost everyone here I’m a gloomy pilgrim

God knows from what distant side.

I, a citizen of the village,

Which will be famous only for that,

That a woman once gave birth here

Russian scandalous piita.

“Come to your senses! Why are you offended?

After all, this is just a new light burning

Another generation at the huts.

They will probably be more interesting -

It’s no longer a village, but the whole earth is their mother.”

Ah, homeland! How funny I have become.

A dry blush flies onto sunken cheeks,

The language of my fellow citizens has become like a foreign language to me,

I'm like a foreigner in my own country.

This is what I see:

Sunday villagers

They gathered at the volost as if they were going to church.

With clumsy unwashed speeches

They discuss their “live.”

It's already evening. Liquid gold plating

The sunset sprinkled the gray fields,

And bare feet, like heifers under the gate,

Poplars were buried in the ditches.

A lame Red Army soldier with a sleepy face,

Wrinkling my forehead in memories,

Tells important stories about Budyonny,

About how the Reds recaptured Perekop.

“We have him this way and that way,”

This bourgeois... who... is in Crimea..."

And the maples wrinkle with the ears of their long branches,

And the women groan into the mute semi-darkness.

The peasant Komsomol is coming from the mountain,

And to the harmonica, playing zealously,

The propaganda of Poor Demyan is singing,

Announcing the valley with a cheerful cry.

This is how the country is!

Why the hell am I

Sorry, dear shelter.

What I served you with, and with that I am satisfied,

Let them not sing to me today -

I sang when my land was sick.

I accept everything.

I take everything as is.

Ready to follow the beaten tracks.

I will give my whole soul to October and May,

But I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.

I won't give it into the wrong hands,

Not my mother, not my friend, not my wife.

Only she entrusted her sounds to me

And she just sang tender songs to me.

Bloom, young ones! And have a healthy body!

You have a different life, you have a different tune.

And I will go alone to unknown limits,

The rebellious soul has been pacified forever.

But even then

When in the whole planet

The tribal feud will pass,

Lies and sadness will disappear, -

I will chant

With the whole being in the poet

Sixth of the land

With a short name “Rus”.

In 1924, Yesenin was the first among the writers of that time to touch upon the topic of the fate of “native abodes” in his poems from the point of view of a newfound view of the world. The first such work was the poem “Return to the Motherland,” which sounds deep melancholy and sadness from the irreversible changes in the life of the homeland and a strange feeling of the invisible abyss that lies between the lyrical hero and the “new” village.

This theme was voiced with enormous, almost epic power in the poem “Soviet Rus'” written at the same time. This is one of the most profound and perfect creations of late Yesenin.

The very name “Soviet Rus'” already speaks of the complexity of Yesenin’s perception of the then way of life. The word “Rus” recalls the centuries-old traditions of the Russian people, their faith, and the complex and glorious historical path of their native country. And the adjective “Soviet” sounds like an antithesis; this word already speaks of a new system that has nothing in common with Russia, Orthodox Russia.

The very first line of the poem contains the motif of revolution, which the author compares to a hurricane. This comparison is quite traditional in Russian literature. In the first quatrain there is a parallel with Pushkin, with his poem “Again I visited...”

...Once again I visited that corner of the earth,

Where I spent two unnoticed years as an exile,

Both here and in “Soviet Rus'” the motif of a lost home is heard. In the third verse, Yesenin uses the metaphor “orphaned land” to emphasize the emptiness that the lyrical hero felt upon returning to his native village. And indeed, the epithet “orphaned” fits the description of present-day Russia perfectly. We are talking not so much about orphaned families, but about the loss of historical statehood, faith, and warmth of heart. Here you can also hear the biblical motif of the prodigal son, who returned to his homeland after many years of wandering. But, unlike the biblical hero, the lyrical hero of the poem does not find forgiveness and a warm welcome in his native land. On the contrary, he feels loneliness and alienation here:

That sad joy that I was alive?

The oxymoron “sad joy” further enhances the sad intonation of these lines. In the second stanza, the image of the mill appears as a symbol of the homeland, a symbol of the Russian village. The author compares this mill to a bird “with only one wing.” Here you can hear the motive of inferiority. Just as a bird unable to fly loses its meaning in life, so the mill in the “new” village has lost its purpose.

In the third stanza, the motif of a burnt house, the motif of ashes, echoes Pushkin’s poem “Two feelings are wonderfully close to us...” Yesenin’s lines are largely autobiographical. It is known that in 1922 the house of Yesenin’s parents burned down. But here the ashes on the site of the father’s house rather personify the collapse of the old world, the old way of life against the backdrop of a new world order.

At the beginning of the fourth stanza, the poetic line “breaks”. The author puts the poetic thought “And life is in full swing...” in a separate line, followed by a pause. Here the antithesis, based on the contrast between the bustle of life and the thoughts of the lyrical hero, catches the eye. The motif of an exile in his native country also sounds. “In no one’s eyes” the lyrical hero finds love and understanding.

The first 4 stanzas can be called the introductory part of the poem. The main story begins with the reasoning of the lyrical hero. “What is Motherland?” The author highlights this rhetorical question in a separate line to emphasize its significance. The motif of the lyrical hero’s alienation in his native land continues to develop. At the same time, the lyrical hero calls himself a “sullen pilgrim”, says that “in his own country... like a foreigner.” The comparison “pilgrim” is interesting, i.e. a pilgrim, a wanderer who has renounced worldly life for the sake of faith, who lives in his own special world, and people often do not understand him. The lyrical hero, in spite of everything, believes in his homeland, in his fatherland and cannot accept a new “faith”.

Irony and pain are heard in the sixth stanza of the poem. The first line is highlighted as a rhetorical exclamation. Here the author again uses antithesis, combining words that are completely different in style: “baba” and “piit” in one stanza. And all this works to intensify the painful feeling that the hero experiences. Here the theme of the poet and his country begins to sound.

Next, one hears the motive of discord between the mind and heart of the lyrical hero. Intellectually, he understands the changes that have taken place and believes that the future belongs to the younger generation. But the heart refuses to accept the “new” life, it only feels pain. It is very unusual that a relatively young man
(at the time of writing the poem Yesenin was 29 years old) gives way to another generation:

You've already begun to fade a little,

Other young men sing different songs.

They will probably be more interesting -

It’s no longer a village, but the whole earth is their mother.

Here the motive of life's completion appears. In the next stanza one can notice a direct echo with the already mentioned poem “Return to the Homeland”:

And now my sister is divorcing me,

Having opened the pot-bellied “Capital” like the Bible,

About Marx, Engels...

No matter the weather

I haven't read these books, of course.

These lines in some sense explain the phrase: “The language of my fellow citizens has become like a stranger to me.”

Further, an epic element appears in the poem - plot pictures, with the help of which the author depicts the life of the “new” village. To add color and verisimilitude to these pictures, the poet includes words of village everyday life, such as “live”, “bourgeois entogo”, etc. Comparing meetings near the volost with a Sunday visit to church, the poet raises the problem of trampled faith.

The technique of personification, with the help of which an image of nature is created, was also characteristic of young Yesenin. But now the poet uses such epithets as “liquid”, “barefoot”, and compares poplars with the legs of heifers. All this creates a very down-to-earth image of rural nature, in tune with the mood of the poem.

The fifteenth stanza of the poem is its climax.

This is how the country is!

Why the hell am I

Screamed in verse that I am friendly with the people?

My poetry is no longer needed here,

And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here either.

This is a cry from the soul. Here, reflections on his native country reach their climax, the hero fully realizes his uselessness in the “new” world, realizing what an impassable abyss now lies between him and the Russian people he once praised. With the help of assonance (countries A— why the hell A- op A l - needed A) the author highlights this quatrain.

The final part of the poem begins with inversion and repetition (I accept everything // I accept everything as it is). The author uses this technique to enhance the logical emphasis, emphasizing the readiness to follow the bitter but inevitable lot, “ready to follow the beaten tracks.”

I will give my whole soul to October and May,

But I won’t give away my dear lyre, -

These lines express the duality of the poet’s worldview. He is ready to come to terms with a new way of life, but he cannot adapt his gift to it.

The penultimate stanza ends with the motif of humility and reconciliation with reality. And the hero wishes the younger generation: “Blossom, young ones! And stay healthy in body!” The author uses the same word to create different images (“fading” - “bloom”), thereby creating a kind of roll call: (“...I began to... fade” - “Bloom, young ones...”).

The hero wishes the younger generation to be healthy in body. Is it because it is very difficult to “healthy” your soul while singing “propaganda”?

The last two lines of this quatrain complete the theme of loneliness, bringing it closer to the theme of the eternal.

You can notice that there are different rhythms in the poem: first there is lyrical intonation, then almost a ditty, and finally again lyrical intonation. And only in the last stanza this intonation, quite consistent with the motive of humility, is replaced by a firm pathetic recognition, as if contrary to everything that was said before. This stanza is written in clear, solemn iambic. These lines state one thing: Rus' is alive. Soviet is just one of the forms of existence of a great, spiritually inexhaustible country, which Yesenin always glorified in his work.

4. How is the work completed? If the final part of the essay does not seem complete enough to you, expand it.

A. Sakharov

That hurricane has passed. Few of us survived.
There are no friendships at roll call for many.
I returned again to the orphaned land,
Which I haven't been to for eight years.

I don't know anyone here
And those who remembered have long forgotten.
And where my father's house once was,
Now there is ash and a layer of road dust.

And life is in full swing.
They're scurrying around me
Both old and young faces.
But I have no one to bow my hat to,
I don’t find shelter in anyone’s eyes.

And a swarm of thoughts pass through my head:
What's the homeland?
Are these really dreams?
After all, for almost everyone here I’m a gloomy pilgrim
God knows from what distant side.

And it's me!
I, a citizen of the village,
Which will be famous only for that,
That a woman once gave birth here
Russian scandalous piita.

You've already begun to fade a little,
Other young men sing different songs.
They will probably be more interesting -
It’s no longer a village, but the whole earth is their mother.”

Ah, homeland! How funny I have become.
A dry blush flies onto the sunken cheeks.
The language of my fellow citizens has become like a foreign language to me,
I'm like a foreigner in my own country.

This is what I see:
Sunday villagers
They gathered at the volost as if they were going to church.
With clumsy, unwashed speeches
They discuss their “live.”

It's already evening. Liquid gold plating
The sunset splashed the gray fields.
And bare feet, like heifers under the gate,
Poplars were buried in the ditches.

A lame Red Army soldier with a sleepy face,
Wrinkling my forehead in memories,
Tells important stories about Budyonny,
About how the Reds recaptured Perekop.

“We have him - this way and that way, -
This bourgeois... who... is in Crimea..."
And the maples wrinkle with the ears of their long branches,
And the women groan into the mute semi-darkness.

The peasant Komsomol is coming from the mountain,
And to the harmonica, playing zealously,
The propaganda of Poor Demyan is singing,
Announcing the valley with a cheerful cry.

This is how the country is!
Why the hell am I
Screamed in verse that I am friendly with the people?
My poetry is no longer needed here,
And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here either.

Well!
Sorry, dear shelter.
What I have done for you is what I am pleased with.
Let them not sing to me today -
I sang when my land was sick.

I accept everything.
I take everything as is.
Ready to follow the beaten tracks.
I will give my whole soul to October and May,
But I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.

I won't give it into the wrong hands,
Not my mother, not my friend, not my wife.
Only she entrusted her sounds to me
And she just sang tender songs to me.

Bloom, young ones! And have a healthy body!
You have a different life, you have a different tune.
And I will go alone to unknown limits,
The rebellious soul has been pacified forever.

But even then
When in the whole planet
The tribal feud will pass,
Lies and sadness will disappear, -
I will chant
With the whole being in the poet
Sixth of the land
With a short name "Rus".

Notes

Newspaper "Baku Worker", 1924, N216, September 24 without lines 32-35, 45-48); in full - "Krasnaya Nov" magazine, Moscow, 1924, N5, August-September.

Sakharov A.M. - Comrade Yesenina, publishing house employee.