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Lubov Zubova.

Why do the words deploy their wings
upon this wasteland?
Why do they rummage among its stubbles
a food nourishing wombs parched of cravings?
Blind squawks amid the days
searing themselves into the fiercest fire, relentless
destinies eater.
This way the minutes pass by tempting,
as dead seeds scorched of their fruit,
link by link,
step by step,
burning among dark flints,
sprinkling this wilderness arrested in the time.
Their forms are trimmed against the threshold
as a dream in waiting,
a damaged wing shaking naked
of what could be warmed
into the joy of a flight.
Why do their spells endure despite the ruin,
against every storm, upon every fate?
Perhaps there is an echo hanging on.
A hidden echo lingering in this silent pit
of the soul.
There is time, it whispers, there is time,
kissing with its dying breath the cracked
lintels of some hope.