Based on Anton Chekhov's The House with the Mezzanine

For Evgenia, nicknamed Misyus

I'm already beginning to forget about the house with the mezzanine,

Misyus, where are you?

And only occasionally, when I write or read in the parlour alone,

Misyus, where are you?

Suddenly, out of the blue, I remember with sorrow

Misyus, where are you?

Now the sound of my footsteps, now the green light in the window,

Misyus, where are you?

The footsteps that resounded in the field at night, timidly in amour

Misyus, where are you?

Returning home, rubbing my hands from the rigor

Misyus, where are you?

And even more rarely, in moments when loneliness torments me,

Misyus, where are you?

And I'm sad, I remember vaguely, and little by little as a miph

Misyus, where are you?

For some reason, it begins to seem to me that she remembers me too,

Misyus, where are you?

She is  waiting for me and that we will meet... vainly dream  is not tabu

Misyus, where are you?

Misyus, where are you? Where?

No answer! Still no answer…