The window swung — and memory softly stirred,
Erasing lines between the lost and done.
You write from past — as if some unfinished word
Still waits, as time upon this line is won.
It's June, and cherry scent like drunken air
Drifts over roofs where we'd remained ungrown.
Let the white sun hang frozen, still and fair,
And schooners in the port miss dawn — alone.
Don't ask for why. If memory storms in us,
We're fellow riders in this mad snowfall.
The way back is both blind and purposeless —
But how good that we'd caught this recall, after all.
Здесь вариант на русском языке
http://stihi.ru/2026/06/25/6410
Memory
© Copyright: Илья Давыдов, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126062506272
Свидетельство о публикации №126062506272
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