I know I'm wrong.
I know I'm right.
She is my wife,
this woman in white.
She crosses the street,
She walks away,
She is on her own...
Look at me!  Hey!
I must be dreaming,
I must be mad -
This woman is leaving!
Please, wait!

... I'm trembling,
not yet, please, not yet...

I know this city,
I know this street,
This corner, this woman,
This tree...
It is me...
at the corner, old tree...

It's cold, she is gone,
I am done...

My leaves...
getting dry, getting grey
My heart...
Too late.

I lost.
I am here.
Silently brave...

A tree is a tree.
Like a stellar 
my own grave.
Victor didn't know why did he write poetry. He wasn't really writing it, more like recording it. He didn't write much of poetry in Russia. Maybe he did feel the same way he felt in America when he was a child, but as a child he didn't know that the feeling of discovery to the world around you is poetry. Now he wasn't a child anymore and he could write. And he was writing. Sometimes it would come out as a poetry.