We have the snow; the iron rusts in it.
You write — the patina has soaked the canvas through.
My shore is here; the other's past the split,
And still I never ask you how you do.
Your continent lies nine hours from my night.
Yes, summer and the winter never met.
The breath "Let us go" now heads north in flight —
But don't the houses fall beneath its weight?
You left a star to warm through curtain lace.
Thank you. I know that it is all alone —
Like corridor lamp in a closed-off place:
Does it still shine when night has fully grown?
"We are no more," you say. Suppose it's true.
Then who, in art's cold ledger, 'mid the dead,
In darkness, sorting out the names anew,
Draws with patina on the canvas spread?
The attic holds not dust but hoarfrost deep,
And all the past lies always under snow.
You know how Latin pardons what we keep:
Et semper vale. I am in your debt, I know.
We have the snow the iron rusts in it
© Copyright: Алексей Погудин, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126100303378
Свидетельство о публикации №126100303378
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