???

[m_a_r_i_j_k_a]

He was my North, my South, my East, my West

My working week and my Sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong

The stars are not wonted now: put out every one;

Pack up  the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the the ocean and sweep up the the wood,

For nothing now can ever come to any good...

I. Brodskij.  NY, I love U

Сколько можно обращаться к Бродскому? Или он просто настолько хорош, что никак нельзя.