AND THEN?

And then? —
not quarantine,
not dark,
not days without a spark.

And then? —
courtyards free,
no refs to see,
no broadcast screens,
no bought machines.
The ball is ours — not sold,
but leather, worn, on grass, as old
as conscience, lying on the ground,
where truth at last can be found.

And then? —
lapta, not just play,
but air, but right, but a new way
to breathe, and never look back
at scoreboards painted black,
at Bitcoin's empty grin,
at outcomes held within.

And then? —
poetry, not crossed out,
but chalk on walls, a silent shout,
on asphalt, on the spines
of regimes in their decline.

And then? —
the referee in black
puts down his whistle, takes it back,
puts on a shirt of white,
and walks into the light —
into the yard, where children play,
and do not fear his whistle's sway,
because a whistle — just a sound,
and truth — is louder, unbound.

And then? —
not "who?" but "why?"
The answer — not in a reply
that fits inside an envelope,
but in the earth, in grass, in hope,
in the first strike of the ball
that no one sold — not one at all.

And then? —
light. Not infinite,
but eternal. Infinite
is just a number — cold and vast,
but eternity is when at last
you do not count, you simply are.

And then? —
we are the ones
who walked through yards,
through garages, through fields and suns,
who crossed out all the lying cards,
and remember: "Cross it out" —
that was the beginning, not the doubt,
and then — life.

And then? —
they were not crossed out.
And they will not be crossed out.
Because —
this is we.