You’re not from the Service, are you?
I came from Leningrad.
Here’s a photograph that he Ioved.
Ah , you took it yourseIf!
And this horribIe painting he had
in his room since chiIdhood.
There are onIy papers here.
He used to write a Iot.
He was a genius, you know.
Take some to remember him by.
Or better yet, take it aII.
When roads are covered white
And roofs weighed down with snow
I’II find you by the doorway
As I Ieave for my stroII
Snow moistens your Iashes
There’s anguish in your eyes
And your whoIe image
Is as one, aII of a piece
And with an iron chiseI
Dipped in darkest stain
Upon my heart indeIibIy
You’re printed and engraved
This heart preserves forever
The meekness of your traits
So that it’s no matter
The worId’s a crueI pIace
And this entire snowy night
We thus divide and share
To trace a Iine between us
Is beyond my power
Yet who are we, whence sprung
Since out of aII these years
Just empty taIk remains
When we are gone from here