Today,
there is a different silence only found in the after.
Balmont wasn't successful but Bashlachev was.
They both wrote about love,
I write to you now.
You with your rainy and rhythmic clouds.
Do I stay alive and spill a grief
I had never given you
or follow,
open to a field of flowers?
Our afternoons with rain pouring
grey silk, was it beautiful enough?
Were the honey sweet divine
or too jaded to taste?
Their tongues were broken, the same
for their bodies and minds.
Teeth and clothes turned to debris
and impossible to hang onto.
Though I'm writing to you
about love too.
To exist is to be touched and I'm sure
that I'd love to be held
by you once more.
Today,
while walking around town,
I heard you had died.
Tragic, they said it was.
I was surprised, I thought I would be first.
I never told you about how I felt, it was always you,
not by your own fault but my doing.
You with your rainy clouds
and me,
with empty fields;
I'm left wandering, where to go,
what to do,
is death suitable now?
If I could hear you,
or see you,
what would you tell me?
What were your final thoughts,
stuck in a ditch with blood and glass?
Was it beautiful to hang upside down
and breathe your last breath?
Balmont wasn't successful but Bashlachev was.
They both wrote about love, I write to you now.
Do I stay alive and remember the grief
I had never given you
or follow,
open to a field of flowers?
You can't answer anyway, your last words to me
have already slipped my mind.