Whilst the nights look like his lips;
He, Vladimir, that I once loved,
And love still now, when I sleep;
And miss now, when I weep.

Whilst the skies look like his eyes;
He, Vladimir, that hath but left,
My soul at the rage of Leningrad;
His goodbyes then erased my heart.

And when I look into the sun, apart;
I cannot but see the naïve Jakarta,
Trembling and groaning and moaning by its heat--
that its brown rain is not too sweet.

And when I gaze into the sea, the ocean;
The sandy scene turns evil bliss,
With a vile scent that rips, and burns--
A part of me that was pleased.

And when I stare at the heat, and its meat;
My souls collapse, they cannot meet,
There are hazards in its singing;
Violence in its newborn spring.

Wha else is sweet but Vladimir’s hand;
There was art then, like that in the rain,
What cold I felt, but that of love--
The feelings then, were more than enough.

What else is love but Vladimir’s eyes;
That my mercy rises to live again,
What is triumph, what is victory;
And all, without my Vladimir in me.

What else is laugh but Vladimir’s gaze;
In there are so much laughter, and idyll,
The ones that speak--the grass feels,
The ones I sought from East to West!

What else are tears but Vladimir’s mad;
What is in love but my own joy;
A joy that is too sad, and now immune--
To this untouched love, the worlds’ tune.

Give me back, o my Vladimir to me;
He was too sweet, that I could not see--
And with a smile he opened my heart
To the cold curtains of Leningrad.

Bring me back, my Vladimir to me;
Tell the whole world look to look vintage,
For my flesh not to carry my age;
And for the Heat not to be seen.

And how can I but not love Leningrad?
With its water, sonorous past--
The magnolia tree there hath friended me;
And which sounds so sweet but she?

And how can I but not love Vladimir;
For his orotund and resonant clauses,
That the birds lakeside loved to hear
Beside the beds of daffodils and roses.

The grandiose melodies, I hear;
Those reminding me of his Light, and sleep--
The ones my heart turned to see,
And were so sweet as his lips.

The ornate feelings, I have here;
The feelings looking short and weird;
But the obedience of life, and Fate--
That we cannot reject, now or late.

The florid roses, and their music
They made my Vladimir looked too sleek;
And so clean as his sea of blue eyes;
Trembling my heart, soaking my nights.

The unsung chords, the lovely song
But nothing lasted a night, nor long;
My Vladimir hath gone from his dreams;
Nor could my other days see him.

The unheard love, the black poetry
That I writ here, oft’ with passion;
That my heart can again be free,
From this longing, from such poisons;

The unspoken, unwritten love;
My Vladimir hath yet to see,
That I hath not once left my thought
of him, and what Leningrad is to be;

The unsorted, untold stories;
I hath not forgiven my own sorry,
I cannot think behind the cold breeze--
My Vladimir might be there, might see me.

The pompous cheer, the fake chills
None is too genuine, and yet;
Why are those all Leningrad can feel,
Why do them make my hearts sad?

The painted hills, the brown forests
Why my heart cannot be at rest;
And why Leningrad can be scandalous
At the most obedient of times?

I cannot see you, but I still hear
Your moonlit voice that I feel near;
And your steps that made me sleep
Ringing loud in my soul so deep.

I cannot hear you, but I still feel
You are about me, my Vladimir;
And why this love seems so blue
Because ‘tis genuine, ‘tis true;

I cannot feel you, but I still sense
That such love too is insane;
That sanity too is my friend,
That we shall meet, and love again;

I cannot sense you, but I still see
That my heart seems to go that far;
To you, to bring you back to me
To our unsung hours in Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but I listen
To the city that makes love fair;
And the story that brought us there,
If only you could be here.

I cannot see you, but I recall
The loveliness there, down the halls;
And the forest--as we walked along,
And stopped by to hear their song.

I cannot see you, but you are here;
Calling out to me that you are near;
And to you, I shall come out
To say my love once more, out loud;

I cannot see you, but you are true
And without you, all hath been blue;
To be with you again, in my heart
To be back in love with Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but you are there
And your love makes Leningrad so fair;
To be your star, and your moonlight
To be in your arms at the gliding night.

I cannot see you, but you love me;
And your love shall make me see
To be my sky, and my rainforests;
To put my clouded heart to rest.

I cannot see you, but you want me
As much as love itself is true;
And as much as Leningrad is to be
As much as our love can be, anew.

I cannot see you, but I want you
And your time as much as mine;
You make me insane, and blind
You are unreal, but then true;

I cannot see you, but I love you
So much as Leningrad anew;
And your heart is what I have here;
And your song is what I hear.