When we met with you,
I was sick, with the soul of a rusty.
Sister, judgments fate,
The whole world seemed to me to Warsaw!
I remember: in the afternoon I was a "poet",
And at night (ghost lives freestyle!)
Over the Vistula black - black delirium…
how boring, cold and hurt!
If only out of my mind
I strike would have been entitled
Crude stash your longing
And boredom, mrachnaya Warsaw!
only you, sister, kept telling me
His thrilling anxiety
About tom, that the world - the home of God,
On a cold and the fire.
1910 – 6 February 1914
