Dedicated to Igor Isakovski
Hardest is the time unscheduled to come
Saddest is the blues in the silence
between two strums on the strings
Worst is the day when the mother
should once again be an exemplar of endurance
When the sister consoles the friends
and friends have no words
Hardest is the time not passing by, yet gone
And the funeral hour is like a cold train on a platform
Heavy are the fingers that don’t obey
and thoughts make sounds like a swarm of crickets in the summer
Terrible is the loss when you don’t cry
Terrible it is when you do
When you know there is no consolation even if there is one
Death
like a postal stamp
sticks on letters without address
wrapping the ankles
like the steam from manholes in the early morning
morbid lottery
when the winners are fatal losers
like silence glued to silence
To hell with silence
let your life ring though it’s gone
And …
there will always be white pages
there will always be messages misread
days unlived
roads unwalked
new bars without persistent elbows
gazes unreturned
knees untouched
laughter unlaughed
there will always be questions unanswered
hair without fingers to caress
lips that crave for another kiss
cold eyes under eyelashes that move no more
salutes without hands to hold the cups