A Pen

There is a deep secret in the dark ink.
You write your name — it freezes in a blink.
You write your thoughts — they scatter, incomplete.
You write your feelings — they trap you in the heat.

The pen moves fast — you chase a fading dream.
It writes your story… yet you slip between.
As if you cast for meaning in your soul,
And reel in ghostly echoes — never whole.

The more you write, the more you feel the drift,
Like fish through nets — they shimmer, then they lift.
The page is full, and yet you know too well:
The deepest truths are those you cannot tell.

There is a secret resting in the ink.
The pen writes words, makes only their skin.
It bleeds, then dries, leaving a trace unsaid.
The pen writes words, but not the thing they meant.

19.04.2025

Like a Dinosaur

— Am I old? — I asked the youths.
— That depends. How old are you?
— Sixty-two.
— Then I guess you’re old. It’s true.
Have you seen old Lenin’s face?
— Of course. I stood beside him there,
On an armored car, in pride and grace,
Waving banners in the air.

I walk home like a dinosaur.
From the window Lena cries:
— Buy some apples from the market!
Check they have no bruised sides!

And suddenly, I’m young again,
A girl who cannot pick good fruit.
Lena’s ninety-six — and then,
Still thinks I’m young and cute.

The policeman shakes his head:
— Is Lena strong and still alive?
— Yes, — I nod. —  She’s not yet dead.
And marvel how we yet survive.

If you want to be young and bold,

And not feel like a dinosaur,

Be with slow and with the old —

Not just the age you fit before. 

11.04.2025

пустое место

А точно —
как камень точно —
только венки и споры,
у подножий памятников,
в тонких корнях тюльпанов,
и пустое место за столом,
где сын мешает ложкой
пюре,
а на стене —
портрет.
Почти живой,
почти смотрящий,
настоящий больше,
чем дыры
на месте,
по которому он
когда-то
просто шёл

09.04.2025

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