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Christian says his daughter dear:
On the lines of this day our daily bread,
On the mother's eyes, dull coat autumn,
That became even more difficult to survive.

Christian writes about how in her Africa,
Guessing at the sleeping lions and antelope eat.
He was never on your Murmansk - Always afraid to fly and, in general, was a mutt

. Christian writes, tears, blood, ink - She's out there somewhere, in her January twenty-five ...
He was sixty and seemed strong enough yet
In fact, to dream once to hug her.

Christian writes at night, in the kitchen, in a whisper,
Afraid to wake up the neighbor's informer,
About how desperately struggling slippery lust,
Breaking feathers trying to finish line.

Christian says quietly, moaning, like a convict,
About pain in the joints, that wants to leave.
About how shabby wall ... she's so cute!
He dives into dreams underground, trying to find her.