Ответ:

A friend of my harsh days

My decrepit dove!

Alone in the wilderness of pine forests

For a long, long time you have been waiting for me.

You are under the window of your room

You grieve as if on a clock

And the needles hesitate every minute

In your wrinkled hands

You look into the forgotten gates

To the black distant path:

Longing, premonitions, worries

They are crowding your chest all the time.

It seems to you ...