Autumn

My love for you 5102 A cold and dark dungeon, the underworld of hell, where everyone who is not liked is sent. Here it is, our real life and our human destiny. I sit and rot, living, and the light coming to me through small windows, makes it clear how much I have left here, my wounds from the battles in this life are bleeding. But they were not made by my enemies, but by my friends. The people into whose hands I put myself, the people into whose hands I put the swords to protect my flesh, the people into whose hands I put the word to protect my soul. They are traitors who are walking free now, with no memory of me. But my enemies look at me with contempt and pity, and they know that I will not live long in this world. They don’t touch me anymore, they don’t make me get up, they don’t want anything more from me, they’re waiting for me to die, so they can send my body to the ground where all those who once lived on earth rest. I look up and see you. You are dressed in white like an angel, your locks are bright and your eyes are clear, like your soul. You’re like a child lost in this hell of torturers and traitors. What are you doing here?” What brings you here?” This question has been on my mind for several nights now. And it only finds the answer when you come to me, look around, and write something with your hand on dark paper. Your eyes are full of sadness, and the grief that is frozen in them is about to burst out. I want to reach out to you and wipe away your tears, soothe your soul, but I can’t, they are broken, I can’t do anything but sit and watch the world and the life that goes around every prisoner here. Here, too, death makes mistakes and leads an unequal battle with life. But here, within this cell and within other cells, death wins, and life retreats to the surface. Where she can breathe most easily. I close my eyes when your hand falls on my eyelids, because I can’t resist you, I want you to take me far, far away, to where there is peace, to where my comrades and friends will be, to where my love is still alive… Everyone sitting here has their own hell to cook in. No one can cause a person such pain as he causes himself with thoughts and mental torments. Everyone has their own hell, everyone sits in their own cell, devoured by their own fear of death. But she feels everything, knows everything, and does not hurry to take our souls, laughs at us. I can feel your hands touching me, like a butterfly’s touch, light and soothing. Maybe I’m really dead already, but I’m in heaven in the next world now. Although no, the pain burns your hands and feet when you examine them. I lose consciousness and plunge into the darkness I’ve been bordering on for the last couple of days. My phone number, 5102, is displayed on the map. They gave it to me when I came here as a prisoner, and I am a stranger on this land, and I will remain a stranger on my own. I lie there delirious. You bring me some water, but it doesn’t get any easier, and you tell me that I don’t have much time left, just a few days. I don’t care. This is the fifth time I’ve met you, and I know it’s the last time, and my fever’s gone, and I can’t feel my hands, so it’s not good. I look at you, you look at me. I know a lot and yet I draw your image in my head, not understanding why I need it. You bend down and kiss me first on the lips and then on the forehead, and now I’m a dead man in reality. See you soon in your next life… We met in an alley in 'thirty-eight, I was writing poetry and you were my only listener, and we met again before I died in' forty-eight. Me for those poems that I read to you, and sentenced, it’s a pity, I won’t see you again. And your only memory of me will be our first and last kiss in a cell, in a camp, somewhere near Moscow.