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Poem

In the frostbitten belly of Russia’s spine,
Where the stars are mute and the sun won’t shine,
A man with chains and a shattered past,
Counts the heartbeats that may be his last.

He once wore laughter like a second skin,
Now silence lives deep within his grin.
No mirrors here—only ice and stone,
To remind him daily: he is alone.

They took his name, his books, his light,
Left him with shadows that whisper at night.
Even the wolves keep a gentler pace
Than guards who mock his hollow face.

A letter once came from his mother’s hand—
Trembling words scrawled like lines in sand:
"My boy, the snow falls heavy at home.
I knit you a scarf. I pray. I roam..."

He pressed it to his lips, to his soul, to his chest,
Then buried it like a bird in a nest.
For hope, in Siberia, is a fragile thread—
Too bright, too kind, and quickly dead.

Through iron bars he watches the sky,
Wonders if clouds remember to cry.
He dreams of bread, of spring, of rain—
Of someone calling his name again.

The birch trees whisper like ghosts in rows,
Their branches bending with ancient woes.
They too are prisoners, scarred and still,
Sentries of sorrow on the white-laced hill.

Years pass like smoke in a bitter wind,
And time forgets the crime he pinned.
But not his soul—it bleeds and sings,
Of stolen summers and broken wings.

So if you pass that northern land,
Where silence wraps the earth like sand,
Pause for a breath, for a tear, for a name—
For a man in the cold, who bears no blame.


Somewhere, a mother still waits at the gate,
Counting the snowflakes. Counting his fate. ??

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