Frost-bitten, snow-blinded, rags-cocooned
(German POWs, they looked like that
in war documentaries,
when a spell of the blitzkrieg died
in blizzards of Stalingrad)
I shuttled streets of Moscow.
Trapped in the present, I wove the future,
Consumed with self-adoration and loathing
I tried to find my way in the amazing big city,
And drifted into the world of the old (aged over 20)
I persisted in passing tests, and staying sane,
And fending off Morpheus, and fighting fatigue.
In the first semester of my freshman year
I’ve scratched on a pane, "Phobos and Deimos".