Crocus City Hall attack

«By the way, I love you», -
The last text written.

Read or unread?
Blood on the screen,
fingers stained red.
A crumpled ticket,
“Picnic” band.
A trembling hand—
could barely stand.
He sat in the hall,
his breath held tight.
The walls shone
in neon light.

they
entered / fire / shoot / attack /
violins screamed,
the ceiling cracked.
Rows of seats
fell into black.

And after 18 minutes - gone.
They left in a car,
sped into dust,
vanished too fast.

Blood ran dry,
dripped from his chest.
Crimson fingers
wrote the rest:
“By the way, I love you.”

His heart stopped
on March twenty-second,
but still 

beats
in her…
WhatsApp.
03.04.2024

On 22 March 2024, a coordinated terrorist attack against civilians, 145 deaths: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crocus_City_Hall_attack

Enchanted Trails

She came back from the forest, but the forest, it seems, did not come back from her.
She still hears its voice, echoing inside, ringing with a whispering whirr.
She closes her eyes and sees the trees, their veil-like trunks,
She still smells of herbs, fresh forest air, and pinewood husks.

She let the nectar of her hair flow in sparkling waterfalls,
Rushing in shimmering streams, as over her shoulders it falls,
Across her tender chest, down her graceful back, along her spine,
Coating her whole body in a glow that forever will shine.

She scattered laughter in the shimmer of silver bells,
Laughing with her head thrown back in deep, hidden dells,
Unconsciously, fully, surrendering with all her sincere grace,
And the sparks of her soul lit her face in a tender trace.

She lay on the ground - poppies bloomed beside her shoulders,
Filling them with scarlet light, reflected in her eyes, with amber-crimson smoulders…
A river ran over her legs, rustling its sweet, enchanting song,
Beckoning and dooming her into a dance wild, willful, strong.

She crossed the edge of the wood without turning back,
Unaware of how the forest whispered in her track.
She came back from the wood, but the forest, it seems, did not come back from her.
She still feels the trails - they pulse with a whispering whirr.

01.04.2025

As the Awaiting Unfolds

I’m a guest who comes before
All the ones still at the door.
I stand and wait - untouched, unseen,
Lingering in hush, serene.

I drink the calm of hollow space,
Where floorboards whisper, bend with grace.
They speak with pain and a strident tone:
“Why do you wait here alone?”

The air is thick, it grips the room,
Stale and heavy - sealed in gloom.
Stand up!
Go!
Open windows!
The house exhales, the air inflows.

Outside the open window, a river gushes—
Strong! Rapid!
Takes away what was unrooted,
Carrying off what lay ragged.

Stormy waters strike with force,
Breaking through the earth’s embrace.
Nothing lingers. It’s my choice,
Spinning into its wild chase.

The balmy air flows free.
Sun spills gold upon the floor.
Currents rise, they sing to me.
Someone opens the door.

A throng flows through the gate,
The ones I’d longed to see and wait.
The floorboards don’t ask, but moan:
“When will you be alone?”

22.03.2025

Whānau

In the tribe, bridges aren’t burned, they are turned
into planks, into nails, into nests of a bird,
into shelters for wandering winds,
iron beams, and ropes that bend,
into all that paves the way to realms
where skies extend and fade.

In the tribe, bridges aren’t lost,
they are tossed
into hands that shape and mold,
turning dust from heaven’s hold
into towers, stairs, and stone,
rising high where stars have shone.

In the tribe, they move as one,
like a tree in rain and sun,
roots unburned, branches sway,
woven nerves that light the way,
growing, reaching, branching free,
united, pulsing like a bee,
never falling, only spun -
who was lost becomes someone.

But we still don’t understand,
the tribe’s not part, but something grand.

Пикалёво

Город «Седых Стен» в далекой стране
Печально известен на синей земле.
Бледные лёгкие дышат неровно,
Сдавлена легкость в них определённо.

Здесь тени не бродят и мраморно-белы,
Воздушно прикрыты, повсюду наделы.
Скованный, хриплый кашель подростка -
Им платит родитель, работая жестко.

В обычную смену, уходит с рассветом,
Домой возвращается лишь за обедом,
И после он занят до темноты.
С ним белые стены завода на ты.

В клубах (задыхаясь) цементовой пыли,
Дети играют в новой квартире.
Яркое солнце на белом асфальте,
Белой траве, будто в базальте,

Светит так ярко. Несбывшийся дождь…
В легких свинцом, что не продохнёшь.
Лишь иногда вспомнят порой,
Что есть где-то там город другой.

Трава там зелёная, как после дождя.
И полной грудью там дышат всегда.
И люди не платят здоровьем своим.
Безжалостен в легких кашля нажим.

Клокочет и рвется дыханье, сбиваясь,
Булькает словно ливень внутри.
И вымыть наружу неистово хочет
«Седой этот Город» в белой пыли.

18.03.2025

О городе Пикалёво: https://rodinananeve.ru/v-pyli-pikalyovo/