Ye Saining was an outstanding Russian poet in the 1920s. His short and poetic tragic life as a comet has withstood the test of history. His poetry occupies an important position in the history of Russian poetry. Left many classic works for mankind.
(1) Birch tree In front of my window, there is a birch tree, which seems to be covered with silver frost and covered with snowflakes. Furry branches, lace embroidered with snowflakes, strings of blooming flowers and picturesque white tassels. In the hazy silence, the birch stands upright in the jade, shining with brilliant snowflakes in the golden light. Birch trees wander around, and the morning glow comes late. It sprinkled silver light on the snow-covered branches.
(2) The barking of dogs in the morning is in the hut where rye is stored. Relying on a row of Jin Jin, the bitch gave birth to seven puppies, all with brown fur. Bitches caress them all day and lick their whole bodies with their tongues. Thick milk, like melted snow, flows under its abdomen-with body temperature. In the evening, the chicken entered the nest, and the owner walked out with a straight face, arrested these seven little things and stuffed them all into a pocket. Bitches ran through the snowdrift and followed their owners closely ... on the ice-free water, they rippled for a long time When he licked the boiling sweat on his ribs and walked back feebly, he felt that the crescent moon on the roof was like one of his puppies. It looked up at the blue sky, gave a loud and resentful wail, sneaked across the zenith with a crescent moon, and secretly hid in fields and hills. People derisively threw stones at it, but it was indifferent to this "reward". Only the golden stars rolled in their eyes and fell on the snow.
(3) The moon is on the window and the wind is under the window. The moon is on the window and the wind is under it. The withered poplar glowed with silver. The accordion sobbed softly, and the sound was lonely, so kind and so far away. The sad song cried and smiled, my bodhi tree, the ancient bodhi tree, where are you? At that time, it was beautiful to get up early to catch up with the festival and pull the accordion to find your sweetheart. But now I don't know what love is, just laughing and crying in a strange song.
Flowers bury their heads lower, flowers bury their heads lower, and they say to me-goodbye, you will never see her face again, the land of your hometown. Honey, what does it matter? What does it matter? I have seen you, and I have seen this land. I like to accept new caresses and the excitement of death. So I realized that I spent my life smiling-all the time saying that everything in the world was repeating. All the same. Anyway, others will come, and the pain will no longer torture the dead generation. People in the future will weave better songs, which are more precious than those left behind now. My sweetheart will be with other men and listen to music silently. Maybe she will remember me, just like those flowers that will never come back to life.
(5) At night, the river quietly flows into the dreamland, and the dark pine forest loses its noise. The nightingale's song was silent, and the long-legged crake no longer cried happily. When night falls, it is quiet, only the stream is singing softly. The bright moon shines brightly, putting a silver coat on everything around it. There are thousands of silver stars in the river, and silver waves in the stream overflow slightly. The grass on the flooded vilen is also shining with silver. As night falls, there is silence and nature is immersed in a dream. The bright moon shines and puts a silver coat on everything around it.