TATITERA — Один

The windows fogged up. Outside — the moon. And you stand without purpose by the window.

Wind. Drooping, arguing, a row of gray birches. There was so much sorrow… So many tears…

And involuntarily rises a dull row of years. The heart hurts, it hurts… I am alone.

In anxious silence the rustles live, and as if carefully they call me here.

As if memory, like a candle, weeps without a flame, and years later, not in silence, looks at me.

Where are you, warm voice? It used to save me. Why for so long? I searched for you.

The windows fogged up — can't wipe them by hand. All the dreams burned down to quiet ash. [?] And I stand as before in this silence with pain and hope, lying at the bottom.

But through the night's cold, through the fog of longing, the heart so refuses to believe your deceit.

That one day, late, in the whisper of the winds you'll come, and gather the stars without words. [?]

And then, perhaps, in this quiet hour the pain will leave — and also won't catch up with us. The pain will leave. The pain will leave.