"So much of life's depending on..."
So much of life’s depending on
those who’ve been captured in the fresco
of memory, descending on
the staircase of the Moscow metro,
they call outside the labyrinths
of decades that no Ariadne
can help you to escape from since
the thread she’s given you has, sadly,
come to an end. Abrupt and short.
A wall – no matter where you turn now.
A world you’d fashion from a word,
that’s far too quiet to discern now.
So much of life is in the past –
that looking back you need not worry
of turning into salt. They’ve passed
beyond the confines of the story.
No one is waiting by the gate,
the trail you took has been erased,
and yet there’s something in your gait
distinctly his, a turn of phrase -
distinctly hers. So much of life
is built on other lives that surely
the foundation that's survived
won’t break or waver prematurely.