Now, nothing seems so serious,
Life feels more like a feather on asphalt and the asphalt doesn’t hurt it anymore, i. e. it’s resting place.
Like Xenia once roamed St Petersburg ,we too wonder, but in our own private separate worlds.
We traced the paths in the silken wheat, among the yellow shafts,
Those paths that were trodden by many long before.
Now the humming of the leaves whisper that this too will fall into oblivion.
There’s some strange solace in that.
When you lose interest in everyday endeavors and toil, and do everything on repeat.
Like Xenia, I roam the steppes of this world, alone but not lonely.
This aloneness was not of my choosing,
Destiny chose it for me or was it my own stupidity?
Whatever it was it owns me and I own it,