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Foggy morning
It's a hazy, foggy morning.
Endless sad fields are all covered by snow.
On such a morning all the past
Suddenly returns into one's mind,
Bringing back the memories
Of long ago forgotten faces.
The memories of passionate conversations,
Of the glances stolen secretly.
The memories of the first date,
And of these of the last one,
And Of the soft voice once so much loved.
And with a strange smile I recall
Our separation..and other
Precious things of the past,
While listening to the sound
Of the train's wheels,
While staring into the wide, endless sky.
Ivan Turgenev....1843.
Translated by Serafima, 2009.
You are listening to
Aleksandr Baskakov.
The photo by Gregory Ivashenko.
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