The blue-gray winter
gathers around
like a soft blanket,
snow-drift is a pillow
underneath your head,
the farthest star,
next to the moon, is looming
the woodland,
and everything turns
to the best manifestation of yours.

The unanswerable questions
are sighing without any answer,
and thoughts became
the last strings of your Life,
you allow the snow flakes
to play on them
the most beautiful symphony,
composed by the frosty fingers
of Death.

Your verses have reached me
across the miles recently, -
and I felt your expanded soul,
I felt the ocean of Life,
dwelling in every sentence
of your imagination and doctrines...

Please, let me believe,
that you accidently chose the blue-grey winter
as your best friend.

You were so proud
of your little house with a glassy veranda,
full of Pagans and Vikings,
Crusaders and Knights,
you treated them well
like your own family... Now,
in the glassy veranda
you are
their respectable guest.
Only God knows,
how important was for you
your little cabin,
standing nowhere,
clinging to the icy fields,
but in your verses
your living place looks like a charming castle,
kissed by the passion,
and embraced by the wings of love.

..."Maybe, in my dream-book
it has been written,
that I froze to death upon
the blue-gray fields"...page 136

How could you predict
your fate like this, my distant poet?

Please, let me believe,
that you accidently chose the blue-gray winter
as your best friend.