Andrey Bely: Alone


            To S. L. Kobilinsky


The windows steamed up.
In the yard the moon hangs.
And you stand aimlessly
before the window.

The wind dies down arguing
with the row of gray birches.
There has been much sorrow...
There have been many tears...

Before you arises involuntarily
the row of abandoned years.
The heart is pained; it hurts.
I am all alone.

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