Darling, I left the house in the evening to get some fresh air spreading out from the ocean, and gaze at the panorama. The sunset was smoldering like a Chinese fan in a parterre, and a cloud puffed up like the cover of a concert piano. A quarter century back, you craved cutlets and dates, my dear, drew with India ink in a notepad, and sang a little, had fun with me; but later, met some chemical-engineer and, judging by letters, you've become dimwitted. You’ve been seen in the city and provinces, in churches for funeral services of common friends, which seem to come by continuously now; and I’m glad there are distances more unthinkable than the one between you and I. Don’t take it the wrong way. No more links exist with your voice, body and name; no one tore them apart, but to forget one life - any man requires, at least, one additional life. And I’ve lived the part. You’ve been lucky as well: for where else besides photographs, will you stay young, wrinkle-free, fun, and light. Time, colliding with memory, learns of its lack of rights. I smoke in the dark and inhale the rancid tide. Joseph Brodsky 1989
It's a very beautiful poem. Russian literature is actually very rich and interesting. I once got interested in Pushkin's work, his poetry is so beautiful, such a pity there's no way to read the original version...