5th Season (War edition)

Summer is burning,
Autumn is closing,
Winter is coming,
Spring is dozing.
I am never waiting
for the fifth season —
the one unending,
for some reason.

Too much noise
through the wires of the world —
sirens, prayers,
and smoke unfurled.
Bombs bloom high
in the broken sky,
and death crawls slow
where children hide.
February’s breath
has lasted three years,
still cold in the lungs,
still tasting of fears.
Shadows waltz
in a red-lit glare,
and horror counts
each whispered prayer.
I turn off the screen,
but it hums in my head —
thousands still alive,
thousands dead.

Come —
to my voice,
where ashes bloom instead of flowers,
where the wind turns woolen
and silence towers,
and all tears of the world
gather into one hold.

And the fifth season —
keeps staining —
for no reason.

10.10.2025