Письма с границы [Pis'ma s granitsy] [English translation]

What am I looking at?

I'm looking at the poplars under my window.

The number of leaves is diminishing every day, soon it will be winter.

But even if the winter will be long,

It will hardly be eternal.

But in the meantime,

What are we to do with this grief (meaning winter)?

What is my part in all of this?

For all of those who'll come to see me,

To keep a kettle on the fire, and to silently

Write letters from the border between the light and the shadow.

We are moving slowly

But surely

Changing space by touch.

From the lowest boundary

To the very top of the hill.

I know everything with my own body.

No one will go along this line,

No one but us.

No one will be able to tell

What there is.

But every young geographer

Will soon be able to read about this

In the full collection

Of the letters from the border.