Rendezvous
The roads are covered with snow,
pitches of roofs piled high.
To stretch my legs I go
out the door you’re standing by.
In a fall coat, alone,
without galoshes or hat,
you struggle with emotion,
pondering the wet
snow. Into mist, all
the fences and trees disappear.
You stand in snowfall
alone on the corner.
Water runs from the scarf
down your sleeve where,
like dew, it soaks the cuff.
It glistens in your hair.
The blonde hair
illuminates with one lock:
the face, scarf, figure,
and the shabby frock.
Your look is
all of a piece – snow
on your eyelashes,
in your eyes, sorrow.
The image of your life
is drawn with the art
of an invisible knife
upon my heart.
The humility of your features
lodged forever in it.
That’s why the indifference
of the world’s irrelevant.
And that’s why, in the wide
night, I can’t discover
the boundaries that divide
us from each other.
And who are we,
in afteryears, and from where,
if rumors remain,
but we’re not there.
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