Where snow falls today,
I will be absent.
Where silence attempts at confession,
The intentions of others cannot be made out.
And you can gaze for a long time at your impression
in the glass picturing a short cut instead
of your own long hair, but you never pick up the scissors.
So I go to the place where the snow is born.
Every day this snow is a humanitarian,
hiding life's flaws, promising nothing.
He simply existed, being born and then dying.
He could easily have started anywhere in Armenia or Crimea,
falling with all the weight of his own necessity
then melting away just as fast, having
handed over the chill like a baton in the relay race,
and afterwards wondering, why my hands and heels are so cold.
And trying to warm my fingers with his breath,
My snow and I while away the hours in bed,
With the futility of such attempts, each unable to
confess this loneliness to the other.