Борис Рыжий, перевод на английский
Wasn't me who wandered around your dreams
or loomed in the crowd,
wasn't something you saw in the park where it rained. Or it rather started
raining (let this line be this very way,
peace be with another),
it was you who appeared in my dreams,
stroked my temples,
(filling me with quiet tenderness),
it was my foolish kind fiction of being about to meet each other.
Poems somewhat were even handed to me this fall.
(anyway there always was something missing,
just a line or a rhyme – for joy).