Polina’s hands are like a forgotten song that you’ve heard again on a gramophone record.
Sounds are sluggish and fly like specks of dust above her head.
Her sleepy eyes await the one who will enter the room and enlighten them.
Polina’s morning keeps going for a hundred billion years.
And all this years I can hear her heartbeat,
and all the windows are misted over by her breath.
And I don’t regret about my endless way
as her crystal bedroom is always, always so bright.
I know those, whose awaiting will pay off, and those, who will die before that,
but both of them are too boring for me.
The reason I love you is that your awaiting waits
for something that will never happen for sure.
Polina’s fingers are like candles in the candliers of nights.
Polina’s tears have became a never-ending stream.
The dawn hesitantly stays on the doorstep of Polina’s room.
Polina’s morning keeps going for a hundred billion years.
And all this years I can hear her heartbeat,
and all the windows are misted over by her breath.
And I don’t regret about my endless way
as her crystal bedroom is always, always so bright.