Journalist: …
Journalist: "... We grow, yet no one knows,"
Journalist: "Like poplars in the winter."
Journalist: Did you write that?
Journalist: It's beautiful. But ...
Зима: ...?
Journalist: Could you please ask your bear friend to stand a little further back?
The huge brown bear stands stubbornly between the two, a mighty guard.
Зима: ... S-sorry.
Зима: Mr. Medvedevich, please, stand ... on my left.
Journalist: You can talk to them?
Зима: More than that ... We communicate.
Journalist: Okay ... I have a few questions. In recompense for what you just put me through, could you answer them for me?
Зима: Go ahead.
Journalist: Why did you come here?
Зима: …
Journalist: If you prefer not to say, I'll ask a different question.
There is a brief struggle in the poet's mind.
Eventually, his rationality to end this quickly defeats his desire for silence.
Зима: ... Because of ... a poem ... for the Tsar. I didn't want to write one.
Journalist: I say, the Tsar! So you're a political prisoner who once walked Green Street. I should have guessed earlier.
Journalist: But sentences mandated by the tsarist government ended long ago. Didn't you know?
Зима: I don't ... understand.
Зима: To me ...
Зима: There isn't ... much ... difference ... who I ... serve the sentence for.
Journalist: Have you ever thought about going back? You should!
Journalist: You have no idea how great the motherland is today ...
Зима: …
He remains silent as the reporter blathers on.
The poet raises his head. As far as the eye can see, there is nothing but endless forest.
Where is this "motherland?"
Зима: No ...
Зима: ... I already ... belong here.
"The poet was not interested in the journalist's suggestions."
"However, the journalist did not give up, hoping to change his mind through persistence."
Sonetto: ... I see.
Sonetto: Maybe I shouldn't ...
Sonetto: …
Sonetto: I hope this isn't the story of the hunter and the pigeon.
Journalist: Our cause could use the support of a concise and compelling spokesperson like you.
Зима: Ahh ...
Journalist: The turns of phrase, the imagery, the metaphors! Every line brims with an innate charm.
Journalist: Sir, even though you refuse to tell me your name ...
Journalist: I must invite you again to return with me. I would be more than willing to help you publish these works.
Зима: …
Journalist: If we bring back these manuscripts and transcribe the verses from the stones, ...
Journalist: ... your legendary experience surviving Devil's Island, enduring such a harsh environment, yet continuing to create in the face of it all, would surely capture people's attention!
Journalist: You're a living legend! The last of the old guard! If you return to Moscow, fame, money, and status will all be at your fingertips.
The chickadee shakes its head in silent refusal.
Зима shakes his head, too.
Journalist: ... No? Why? Isn't that what you want?
He is clearly puzzled, so much so that he continues to inquire as to his reasoning.
Journalist: Or did you not actually write these poems?
Зима: That's ... not important. Maybe I did write them.
Зима: Or maybe ... "зима" wrote them, or Mr. Medvedevich ...
Journalist: зима?
Зима: They ... are just—ahem—just "poems." That's ... all.
Journalist: What do you mean by that!? Are you some sort of responsibility-shafting liberal?
Зима: …
Зима: What's ... that?
Зима: ... And I have no ... "legendary experience."
Зима: Suffering ... should not be embellished and ... exploited.
Journalist: You obviously have a sense of belonging to this place. You said so yourself.
Journalist: You've fallen in love with it! Despite its wild, primitive nature.
Journalist: That being the case, can this experience really be considered suffering for you?
Зима: …
Зима: T-this is ... my opinion.
Зима: You haven't ... seen those who died ...
The scorched earth, the collapsed shacks, the desolate forests with few traces of humanity.
The roads paved with bloodstained stones.
Where did they come from? Is there anyone who remembers?
Зима: ... because of the cold ... hunger ... injuries and despair.
Зима: They are ... right under ... your feet.
Зима: ... sigh.
Зима: Go back ... alone. I decline ... your offer.
Go back ... alone. I decline ... your offer.
