My friend, my green-eyed friend,
To you I write the letter without count.
A dining-table. A plate. Bread and a bowl.
Half-opened window lets in dust and sand.
Hear noise of cars in sultry eastern evening.
There is no trend for drinking vodka here.
They drink caffee, and wine, and southern wind
In shades of cypresses and myrtles...
I write, my green-eyed friend,
In ever sweet remembrance
Of North, a bath house, freshly fallen snow...
I've never gotten any answer -
And yet a new age comes anon.
I'm waiting for response. From whom? From god. From people.
But -- still in vain, -- I know it very well -- ,
Untill I plunge into oblivion
Or write a letter to myself.