Перевод стихотворения И. А. Бродского

From nowhere, with love, on the teenth of Marchvember,
My dear, my darling, name matters the least,
As telling the truth, I don't remember the features of face,
Not-yours, but no one's faithful friend sends you warm kiss
From the land,held up by cowboys.
I loved you more than the winged or Lord
That's why I'm farther from you, than from them both...
Late at night, in the valley, on very ground,
In the town, swept with the snow up to door-handle,
Writhing on bed sheet--
Like in the cradle,
I plump up the pillow with moaning "you",
Being kept behind seas with no ending,
In the darkness, all features of your solitude,
Like reckless mirror with body reflecting.