I. Evgeny Nikitin
The candle flame is trembling and in sway
As, catching fire, a moth melts in to kiss her.
My friend stopped writing—he is like a whisper,
A beast that runs his hunter’s way.
Winter is closing in, drawing its shutters.
The timid gas with little azure tongue
Spurts from the burner, lightly stutters,
The dying moth forgotten before long.