ALONE IN THE NIGHT CAR
I drink cold tea in Moscow,
You are autumn by the gulps and in St. Petersburg.
Bitterness is pouring over the edge in it
My bowls according to the lines of playwrights.
Trains leave for the Neva,
Sliding along the rails with hoarse crying, screaming.
You missed your flight again:
I should get used to it long ago.
In the hands of the “grimacing” ticket,
A tired look walks around the station.
There’s a void here. You’re not here!
And nothing seems to have connected us:
No dusty pages of books,
Married by the history of Russia;
Neither an eternity of days, nor a long moment —
Madness on the verge of euphoria.
But I’m ready to wait all my life.
Standing like that —a soldier on the platform.
Just be sure to come back
To my Moscow. Alone in the night car.
© Olga Hess. Alone in the night car