The Language of the Marshutka

The Marshutka travels down the jarring road, and just as in life, we are unsure of the hurdles we will encounter along our winding journey. The torn and chalky seat carries each of you, And you are with me, Just as was intended, by a divine intervention, for our blessed meeting. Your kindness needs no words because I can see it in your eyes, beneath the veil that covers the raw you, the one that cries, Scripted within your iris, I follow your narrative, with every creasing blink, And through passing looks our living stories interlink. In those speckled brown pools, I see your soul, I see your past and the worries you hold, passing windows of cobalt blue I feel the truth that lives in you, and in apertures of forest green, I see the things that you have seen. Your dandelion clocks, show where you went astray, and where the wind of life blew your seeds away, And on this everlasting journey, the two of us sit opposite one another on this rickety marshutka, Separated by the language we speak yet found in our own translation.