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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It was October 7th when I met Yeva on Malaya Bronnaya Street. The cold moved quietly through the city. Snow descended slowly— like white feathers falling from heaven. And when I looked at her, something ancient stirred inside me. As if somewhere beyond memory, we had already met. Her spirit shined warmly against the winter air. Her eyes— deep blue, calm as a silent lake beneath the moon. I greeted her in Russian. “Hello… my name is Chanda.” She smiled softly. “I am Yeva.” And in that moment, our eyes held each other longer than words could speak. The world became distant. Only snow remained. And breath. And silence. It felt as though fate itself had paused to watch us. So I spoke love without fear. And she accepted it without hesitation. I was a Black man from Africa. She was a young Russian woman of twenty-five winters. Yet neither of us saw color. Because the soul has no nation. And love— when it is real— does not ask permission from the world. Before dawn arrived, we walked beside the Moskva River hand in hand. The river moved slowly through the sleeping city, like time itself. Then came goodbye. The saddest word ever created by man. I touched her shoulder gently. And beneath the falling snow, I gave her a deep African kiss. Her voice— soft and golden— like honey falling from a sacred spoon. “Chanda,” she whispered, “I have never seen anything that amazes me the way you do.” And after one final kiss, she turned away slowly into the white streets of Moscow. I remained there— silent. Watching her disappear into the snow until my eyes could no longer hold her. But in my soul, she remained. Like Venus— the morning star— shining quietly before sunrise. Some people leave. But their spirit never truly departs.
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