My imagination, obediently,
Conceives grey eyes.
In Tver, in my solitude,
It’s you I bitterly remember.
Happily captive in another’s arms,
On the left bank of the Neva,
My famed contemporary,
You have all that you desired;
You who told me: Enough,
Go now, quench your love!
And I weakly, waste away,
Though the blood beats more strongly.
If I die, who will write,
These poems to you,
Whose voice will ring
With my still unspoken words?
