I look at the Cyrillic letters,
words, and sentences
through the magnifying glass,
wondering:
"Peace and War"
is not the same as it used to be.

I try hard to dig its soul,
so hard, that I can smell
the murky autumns,
harvesting nothing,
but hate and love.

How nice it would be
to catch Natasha's free spirit
and hold it on my palms
like a spring sparrow...

It's deep midnight.

I turn off
the lights and think
about the heartless battles
and the forgiveness of sins.

I think
about my failing eyes.