Dima Filatov ll

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You never liked to get The letters that I sent.
But now you've got the gist Of what my letters meant.
You're reading them again, The ones you didn't burn.
You press them to your lips, My pages of concern.

I said there'd been a flood. I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come. I gave you my address.

Your story was so long, The plot was so intense,
It took you years to cross The lines of self-defense.
The wounded forms appear: The loss, the full extent;
And simple kindness here, The solitude of strength.

You walk into my room. You stand there at my desk,
Begin your letter to The one who's coming next.