A song.

Даже в стихотворениях, написанных на английском, сквозит его неповторимый стиль, который, как я выяснила лишь недавно, не зависит от языковых средств. И я влюблена в эту безграничную гениальность.

I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.

I wish you sat on the sofa

and I sat near.

the handkerchief could be yours,

the tear could be mine, chin-bound.

Though it could be, of course,

the other way around.

I wish you were here, dear,

I wish you were here.

I wish we were in my car,

and you'd shift the gear.

we'd find ourselves elsewhere,

on an unknown shore.

Or else we'd repair

To where we've been before.

I wish you were here, dear,

I wish you were here.

I wish I knew no astronomy 

when stars appear,

when the moon skims the water

that sighs and shifts in its slumber.

I wish it were still a quarter

to dial your number.

I wish you were here, dear,

in this hemisphere,

as I sit on the porch

sipping a beer.

It's evening, the sun is setting;

boys shout and gulls are crying.

What's the point of forgetting

If it's followed by dying? 

(c) Иосиф Бродский