PROSAICAL
My space has never felt your real steps.
Your real face was never shown to my gaze.
But why are there hundreds of hidden places
in my memory where I’m afraid to penetrate –
they are so full of you, your thoughts and words,
that I already do not know whether I live my own life
or I’ve disappeared in them without a trace…
Time, like a stranglehold, squeezes the frail flesh.
And bones crack with endless pain. Veins burst.
The soul is tired and waits for the chain of time
to close on its neck, and it’ll break free from
the shackles into the will of heaven –
this is the present rushes past me like the last fast train,
but I remain on the platform,
struck by the embraces of your presence.
©Natalia Govsha
