The Day After Rachmaninoff s Third Symphony

I could have chosen another path.
Hate and fury—like so many do.
It would’ve been much easier.

For me. But you know,
the truth is often just the Truth.
I refused to let the world split me open
with rage and vengeance
for sins that weren’t mine.

No regrets - a very simple line.

That battle felt endless and futile,
every day another tearing apart,
alive—like medieval retribution—
gathering scattered notes
into staves,
stretched like five fingers
over the muted strings.
A tightly clenched fist of slaves—
the last day before the Third Symphony.

Then came the burning—of books, of scores, of witches.
But I believed
my Home would be joyful and bright.

Back then, well, all right—
there was only one universe,
spilled out
the moment the judge surrendered his mandate,
tossed his wig and robe,
and went to bathe in the warm seas,
just like everyone else.
Not me and you and a few others—
but the whole world, folding
into one common breath.
Black and white.

Even if the Third Symphony starts again,
I had no doubt:
my house would be joyful and bright.

Then came a letter of strong recommendation:
You don’t have to live broken
on the borders of division.
Your universe was always one,
and your Home will be bare, and full of sun.

Even if the Third Symphony plays again,
I had no doubt:
my house will be joyful and bright.

Dreams do come true—
yes, I know, you’re right—
despite what people wish for.
Those strange days fulfill themselves—
the ones whose names
you’ll never speak.
They tremble like quiet vibrations between the lines,
those long days, endless weeks.

So I never write them down,
because our notes are too fragile for judgment.
And I don’t need to live
where nothing breathes,
where nothing went.

The scent of nostalgia—white and red roses,
a few tones overripe with borrowed guilt,
and a warm summer afternoon,
a few minutes after the Third Symphony ends.
Applause from those who speak the loudest—
but my house is built
from the flaked-off plaster of broken promises,
from the pain of wasted wishes,
from bricks of days
where time stopped
for just a few breaths.
For dreams that dropped.

Shared lodging with a judge
who loves and does not judge.

I could’ve chosen differently.
So each of us learns to survive.
Now I sit by the riverbank,
whistling like my father taught me.
Alive.

There’s no space here
for romantic, compassion-drenched dreaming,
no room for fate or screaming.
But I’m a dreamer—
you can’t cure that.
It will always be the same with me.

Sharing is a form of self-defense.
That’s why my house is joyful and bright,
even when they rehearse the Third Symphony
a third or fourth time—
and somewhere behind,
a surveillance camera hums.

I’m making peace with the habits of this age.

Let them keep dreaming of their strength.
Let them leave their art upon this stage.
The machines of imbalance sometimes collapse
without warning—
folding into their own black holes of unknowing.

I remember you.

And I remember my new home, my new Universe,
while I remain—
quiet, joyful, and bright.
Because he loves. He knows, and does not judge,
while I remain.
For me, the only one—The Man.