Foggy November was scattered by snow.
In such weather it is good to drink a grog and be silent.
And a plaid is wrapping me so gently.
I listen to breath and a silence of evening to write you letters.
I write, warming fingers by breath -
the shiver is the companion of heart excitement.
On a clean sheet
my thoughts-wanderers designate the Shelter:
where is the truth,
where is lie
And here will be Lie that all, as before,
That I don't miss you,
to me all the same.
That it's not me who is falling asleep in hope.
That it's not me who is loving you for a long time.
I'll lie, preserving my pride
that I haven't affairs for love-games.
I'll lie that "competitor" not excite me.
And saying lie about the main thing
I'll add the Truth.
And the Truth here will be that everything, as before -
simple cares, the house and garden.
That it's necessary to prepare winter clothes.
That it's cold in my house.
That the autumn here is extremely soft
and our old garden would please you
by abundance of paints and apples on branches.
Well, here I'll finish the story.
The sheet has ended.
Thoughts-wanderers became the mirror-halls of the Lie and Truth .
I hope : your sensitive fingers will grope a nerve of my naked soul.
The thawn snow adds a fog.
The grog has ended.
The fireplace is dimming.
Perhaps, enough of the self-deception.
- my letters were burned ,