Ode to Birch

(Siberia , Feb 2022)

Snow is white
Snow is pure
But snow is cold too.
Is it this coldness
that keeps her pure and alive?

Hope keeps us on the railroads of life
I see , outside the train window
passing Desires,
as pure as snow,
on this infinite canvas of whites…
shrouded by Birch trees
in numbers unknown
with their tender white skins
Soft, as if about to dissolve in us
like a Russian девушка*
Yet hardest in soul…
Buts it’s also the hard birch
that burns the best and burns for long…
And like hope, she keeps burning herself
to keep everyone warm
becoming nothing in return
Or perhaps everything for some?

And these snow-like desires
keeps on coming back
falling onto her, like crazy lovers
sometimes with tender kisses
at times with thunderstorms,
Each one with their own goodness
and own questions
of love and wants
nonstop… ever-evolving
trying to hold on to her arms,
waiting to become her or die in vain…

And holding snow on her arms
the birch too lives the questions
of hopes and despair
of presence and absence
with all the echos and shadows
of gone by moments ,
and the ones that are yet to come
she starts becoming snow herself
day by day,
moment by moment,
year after year
like a Russian девушка*
soft skin, as if about to dissolve in us
Yet coldest in soul,
pure and alive…

I see , from the train window
snow after snow
birch after birch
on this infinite canvas of whites
this never ending dance of life…