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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