Письмо [Pis'mo] [English translation]

I'm sorry you missed the summer downpour

On July night, at the Baltic Bay,

You didn't see the magic of those lines.

The wave, so lovely to the touch of hands,

The sand, where stones are scattered around,

The landscape, which hasn't changed here in ages.

I'm sorry we won't get again on the train,

That will cross this time zone

Along the needle that's pulled to the pole.

That there won't be a party reflecting

In that compartment window, with ever changing picture,

And we won't wake up in each other's embrace.

Late at night

Through all the commas I finally came to a full stop.

Address. Mail.

Don't worry, I won't dedicate you a line anymore.

Silence. The sounds

Reach me rarely at nights.

Blurred letters.

I write and never expect a reply.

Thoughts, rhymes.

The light remains, the sound remains, the rest is erased.

Fading digits.

I called just to hear your voice.

Frozen Horseman1.

The Horseman froze, the river grew cramped in the channel.

Verges, edges.

I love without the need in reciprocal feeling.

1. The Bronze Horseman, a statue of Peter the Great in Saint Petersburg, Russia?