Author's website Alexander Korotko

***

Time became

a lump in the throat,

a tower,

a skyscraper

that grows

and breaks through

the unlived

life,

through the madness

of anxiety

with the monotonous

constancy

of quietly aching

hopes,

where the postscript

of waiting

hides the tears

of parting

in the bloodless

dew.

Sky — who are you?

An impartial

observer,

or a victim

of reflection,

of death-stained days,

crosshatched

by war?

Our nights —

a dungeon,

but we

step into the light

and in the arms

of dawn

we shelter

the pain

of our hearts.