Along the boulevard by the Black Sea,
is a grove of chestnut trees,
where bodies lie, holding hands
awaiting final destiny.
That was yesterday, not today.
Lost is living without fear.
The world, turning their backs.
Ukraine, a country of homelessness.
I pick up my oboe,
like I did in the Philharmonic in Kyiv.
I lean in closer to Sofia and say,
“Tonight, I am playing Sonata in C Major,
your favorite, my dear.”
I touch her cold, frail hand,
kiss her pallid cheeks and begin to play.
Joy touches her face immediately.
She smiles repeatedly to me.
Caressing soulful melodies echo
in the dark abyss underground,
sheltering from the unrelenting bombings
above ground, all around.
But that night, Sofa, his beloved, died,
cradled in his loving arms.
God doesn’t recognize them anymore.
She is whispering in the wind.
His eyes, full of tears,
awaiting the crushing silence,
beneath the chestnut trees lining
the boulevard by the Black Sea.
His soul severed.