Sweet To Me Was Not

During The Terrible Years Of The Yekhov Terror I Spent Seventeen Months In The Prison Queues In Leningrad. One Day Someone ‘identified’ Me. Then A Woman With Lips Blue With Cold Who Was Standing Behind Me, And Of Course Had Never Heard Of My Name, Came Out Of The Numbness Which Affected Us All And Whispered In My Ear—(we All Spoke In Whispers There): ‘could You Describe This?’ I Said, ‘i Can!’ Then Something Resembling A Smile Slipped Over What Had Once Been Her Face.

It Was A Time When Only The Dead Smiled, Happy In Their Peace.

Wild Honey Smells Of Freedom The Dust - Of Sunlight The Mouth Of A Young Girl, Like A Violet But Gold - Smells Of Nothing.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms.

Call Me A Sinner, Mock Me Maliciously: I Was Your Insomnia, I Was Your Grief.