and cold suns on my skin,
his wounds still shiver inside me,
and days that came from death
to cast his face in every hour,
a soldier lost in the ice of his Gulag,
who forgot the why and where
of survival. Eyes seek the slipstream
of trains rumbling to the void.
Birds bequeath their footprints
on his snowy back.
My eyes have not seen him,
the memory of streets that come
from night and run parallel to death.
I, the exhausted soldier,
the residue of undefeated battles.