ulianov

A speck of rusty foolishness

and

A nasty rack

of yellow restiness

fall down

in the evening of your skin

a pale dimming tin

drowning

in that night

at Columbine,

the atomic bomb

far far away

detonating

as if the world could speak

of nothing more

even though the silence

was breaking its door,

so you went up

and in your sleepy flamboyant rush

you took the final flight

leaving me

in the eternal dusk

of your return

the never-eneding task of sorrow:

the black pond

within myself

where dark feathers

move their unknown tails

in the darkness

of my empty mind