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Mom

Mom has died.
We did not see each other for some years.
But I always knew - she lives in Nizhni Novgorod,
In a small apartment of a five-floor house,
On a high hill above the big river.
I often phoned her. 
I knew - the good woman helps m?m,
Looks after her, like one would a child, 
Sometimes they drink tea together , watch TV,
And, probably, they talk about me.
We had no possibility to meet. 
But both of us hoped -
Soon my legs will better,
And I shall come.
But one month ago,
In the solar July morning, 
I have learned - Mom has died. 
Mom is not present more. 
I never shall visit to her. 
I never shall argue with her, 
And I never will hug her.
A very dear string of my soul has been torn. 
My favourite rain has dried up somewhere.
The star of tenderness, of understanding and hope has died out.
But a new star has flashed -
It is the brightest of all stars - MY LOVE OF MOM. 
... The summer is continues. 
August gives warm rains, flowers and fruits.
This August is the first for me - without Mom. 
Mom has died.
And now I love her so, 
As never in life.

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