From Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment,
to Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, not to mention
Nabokov, Chechov and of course Zhivago,
your books have lined my shelves. As a boy,
I lived inside and tried to find myself.
As a man I learned to see, to speak and even
break free, in moments that came randomly.
I yearned to feel, to touch and even bleed
as I wandered through this world aimlessly.
I regained my trust but gained not much.
And now, your eastern wind has begun to blow
that old dust off my restless and unsettled soul.
It gets me thinking, reminiscing, remembering
It fills my screen with curiosities. Another great
Russian book to read, nothing less, nothing more.