When tired you come home, Samojedny from the day's work, Depressed, confused, sick, And you will find bad things... I won't tear you from heaven star. And not a hundred of Shakespeare's sonnets, And if the shadow will fit In the air dress color. I'll put your hand to your cheek, to make the pain like sugar, soluble. There is healing in a loving hand. There is consolation in the proximity of the beloved. I'll bring you some hot tea to warm you from vegetating In cold days. And your sorrow will Blossom as the old knitting. I smile on you a thousand times, To only have you ever smiled at me. Showering a million warm phrases To the spirit of fun again returned to you. And if not, I'll let you sleep, And I will have the bed on his knees to pray, no noise no Until bad mood...