After the collision with the system, not crossed o

While erasing —
not erased.

Not with chalk, not with a click,
not with any law's thick stick.
It remained —
in the chest,
in the brain,
in every home's beating vein.

The blow remained —
not at the ball,
but at the system's iron wall.
The light remained —
not on the screen,
but in the body, in the deed — unseen.

Lapta remained —
not child's play,
but the truth that will not fray.
The yards remained, the garages,
the voices without images —
no cameras, no lies,
no system's counting of the sighs.

The question stayed:
"Who throws the ball?"
The answer —
not in the envelope's sprawl,
not in Bitcoin's digital fall,
not in the outcome fixed for all.

But in this alone:
poetry is not a stone
you can erase — because it's bone,
not a line, but the bone's own tone.

It lives in those who stepped outside,
in those who with chalk on the wall
scrawled the word:
"Light" — and did not hide.

And if the referee in black
blows his whistle — we don't look back.
Because the game is not on the track —
it's inside, where they cannot attack.

And there —
it cannot be erased.

Cannot be erased.
Cannot be erased.
Cannot be erased.