WE ALL ARE MADLY, TERRIBLY LONELY (But Not Really)

As I am slowly rearranging my old Russian poems, they keep surprising me with how some things about me changed while others did not, no matter how many years have passed. For example, the poem below is about loneliness that results from our inability to put into words how we really feel, what we really experience. Coincidentally, the next entry that I am planning to write for my online experimental book Me, Looking for Meaning is supposed to be titled: "Why is language so unhelpful?". I love languages, and I know a few (which does not make me a linguistic expert, or course), yet I am continually amazed by how difficult it is to explain ourselves through words. 

​I am convinced that many misunderstandings, big and small, stem from our assumption that language is a simple and transparent tool. Abandoning it would be stupid, of course. Is there a solution? Blindly relying on words can make us feel desperate and lonely, the way I am describing it in my poem below. By acknowledging the imperfections of language without rejecting it, we may be able to find a place beyond words where a truer connection is possible.

***
We all are madly, terribly lonely.
So I will not tell you
What kind of rain was walking today on the roof
With its purple-blue tail,
Or what kind of night was flowing into the window,
Or how the sweetly silent clouds
Were rubbing their backs against the earth.
And you too, I am begging you, don't tell me,
Don't tell me anything at all.

***
Мы все безумно одиноки.
И я тебе не расскажу,
Какой сегодня дождь по крыше
Гулял – с хвостом лилово-синим,
Какая ночь в окно втекала,
Как сладко облака молчали
И терлись спинами о землю.
И ты, прошу, не говори мне,
Не говори мне ни о чем.