"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.