A park of wonders, where I dropped a stinky trace,
I speak the truth, no f*ing joking here—
For as I walked, a sudden pain did race,
And struck my gut with sharp, unbidden fear.
Around me, passersby with hurried pace,
I count them, yet I seek a quiet spot,
A corner hidden well, with quiet grace,
And there, with scratch of branch, I find my lot.

A wondrous garden, sweet with fragrant air,
Where morning's light delights the soul within,
In shadows soft, I find my solace there,
Beside a rose, where nature does begin.
The crows do cry, the snails they crawl with might,
The dew upon the grass, a fleeting grace.
And fate, it seems, in moments calm and bright,
Reveals itself, unknowing in this place.

Within this lonely, tranquil, leafy land,
A figure stirs, an Uzbek in his dress,
A gardener of the streets, with broom in hand,
Distracts me with his talk, and I confess —
Through tangled brush, his steps a sudden breeze,
He speaks of nations, politics, and more,
As though, in paradise, his mind finds ease,
And shakes the peace of nature’s sacred floor.

So many here, diverse in every way,
From every corner of that old empire.
Greetings, my friend, though I must turn away,
For silence, now, is all I can desire.
The garden fades; the autumn winds do call.
No topic now remains for us to share,
Let’s end this moment, leave without a fall,
And part, with silence still between the air.

I, too, recall that bygone age so fair,
When love and bonds were free, not bound by rule.
Yet time has turned, and sifted through the air,
And brought about the world more strict and cool.

With sorrow, I observe my peers’ delay,
They cling to pasts that shaped their younger days.
Unseen, the tides have swept old ways away,
Yet still, they lean on what their youth conveys.

Now, pondering the shifts that waves have brought,
That rushed to shore, then pulled the sands to naught,
I search for meaning in this endless flow —
But grasp no sense in tides that come and go.

And yet, I think my grief has deeper roots:
As years weigh heavy, strength begins to fade.
The fire to break the rules, once bold, now mute —
For bonds, of any kind, I’ve lost the blade.

When evening falls and work is through,
The office hushes, silence grew,
I dim the lights, the glow retreats,
And slump into my chair’s defeat.

In twilight’s blur, I fix my gaze,
The doorway looms through vacant haze.
I strain to stall time’s steady creep,
To crack the drone of routine’s sweep.

To bear the ache that never shifts,
No break, no tide, no fleeting lifts.
Inside, outside — the same dull frame,
Life blurs to gray, a muted name.

A song, a prayer, or fleeting trance,
Not meant for peace or cosmic dance—
No gods, no calm, no vast design,
Just balm to hold this void divine.

For meaning frays when scenes stay still,
A stagnant pulse, a muted thrill.
A pause, a hush, a numb delay,
Where inner whispers fade away—

Or spill in senseless, drifting streams,
A fleeting death within these dreams.
Or brief immortal masquerade,
Where “one-one-one” drones on, unswayed.

A godlike perch, perhaps, to sit,
In endless loops, no spark, no split.
If joy is found where time suspends,
And leaves no mark, no arc, no ends—

Then here it lies, this hollow shell,
Where years entwine, and echoes dwell.
Forever trapped, or so it seems,
In this eternal, lifeless dream.

The time has come when earth is draped in splendor,
A shroud of fallen leaves, their mournful glow,
Whose aged weariness and somber grandeur
Have long been part of me, as well I know.

The air is sick and heavy with despair,
And as the dim day fades to evening’s chill,
The night’s cold breath steals what remains in there—
A kindred force to my own breath, so still.

I find a strange delight in this connection,
A fervent joy in such a somber tie,
When, breathing in the autumn’s damp infection,
I feel the freshness of decay nearby.

The birds are silent, leaves but faintly rustle,
The fire smolders low, and you are here.
The cooling ash of night’s hushed bustle
Holds neither promise nor a trace of fear.

The forceful spark of life, now vain and fleeting,
Has crumbled deep within its withered core.
A bit of ash, a wisp of smoke retreating —
That’s all you see in me, and nothing more.

The first wind gently stirs, the first gust’s cry,
I am gone, and earth no longer bears me by.

In quiet shadow of autumn’s embrace,
She did appear — dark hair tied in a knot, her tendrils swayed,
A wraith in motion, light as fleeting grace,
She seemed to float, not walk, as if she played.
Her eyes, a tangled maze of sorrow’s hue,
Held mocking glint beneath their veiled disguise,
Whispering secrets, truths, untold, askew,
And all the mysteries that hid behind our lives.

I reckon rivers, cold with ancient song,
Where lights like scattered stars would softly fade,
The crunch of snow beneath our feet belonged
To winter’s kiss, its icy serenade.
But then, in autumn, our hearts aligned,
In silence where the leaves began to weep,
And in that space, where words were left behind,
We spoke of what the world could never keep.

Her home — a haven, tender, warm, and still,
Books lined the shelves, a silent, sacred trust,
While soft light flickered, casting shadows’ thrill,
And candles burned, as if in love or lust.
Her perfume lingered, blending with the air,
A fragrance like the hearth of ancient dreams,
And in her voice — a melody so rare,
Each word a whisper from forgotten streams.

We spoke of books, of lives we wished to weave,
Of promises the future held in thrall.
She said, “To live is to believe, to grieve,
But never lose yourself, not through it all.”
Her words, like keys to doors I’d never known,
Unlocked a chamber within me, soft yet vast,
And in that moment, all my fears were shown
To be illusions, fading with the past.

Then came the day the train stole you away,
The air was cold, a sharp and bitter knife,
And all the noise of engines tried to sway
The space between us—like the death of life.
Your eyes, so full of sorrow, tore at me,
A part of you I knew was slipping through,
And as the time consumed the world we’d see,
I knew I’d never be the same, like you.

You were not just a person in my world,
But something more—like sunlight through the dark,
A glow that through the years has still unfurled,
A sacred memory, its so attractive spark.
Though time has claimed its toll, and we have strayed,
The echoes of our love remain in me,
A testament to what we once portrayed,
A love that lives beyond the eyes we see.

The tale of every love, a pattern spun,
A dance of meeting, parting — never done.
Its own attractive spark, too plain to hide,
A law of worlds, both vast and unified.
Beneath the mask of what we claim our own,
A force persists, relentless, overgrown,
Erasing lines that once defined the heart,
Till memory and self are torn apart.

Through time, our recollections start to blur,
A stream of thought where edges faintly stir,
And in this flow, the self begins to fade,
Lost in the vast, unending cosmic shade.
No longer bound by lines of “you” or “me”,
We merge into the boundless, endless sea
Of nothingness, without night or light,
And lose ourselves, dissolving out of sight.

If God exists, why do the children fall,  
To cancer’s cruel and unforgiving hands?  
This world cannot be shaped by one who’d call  
Such misery "order"—none understands.  
The gods, if they exist, must stand too far—  
A distant shadow, cold, without command.  
The world He made, too harsh, too deeply scarred,  
And thus, if there is God, He’s misbegan.  
No child should perish for such hollow art,  
No god would craft this cruel and fractured heart.  

The suffering of the innocent is law,  
Not random chance, but woven in the thread.  
A plan unknown, a world in perfect flaw,  
Where pain and loss lie always just ahead.  
If pain must reign to teach the truth we seek,  
Then truth itself is cheaper than the cost.  
I will not bear such price, for I am weak—  
A world of sorrow leaves all things as lost.  
If peace is born from children’s endless tears,  
Then peace is but a lie, a mask of fears.  

What sense is in a world that builds on this?  
Where joy is stolen, suffering grows thick.  
Why seek a world where harmony’s amiss?  
Where death and grief are stitched in every brick.  
I want no peace that tastes of sorrow’s kiss,  
For love of life, I turn away from bliss.  
If God exists, why does He watch this plight?  
And if no answer comes, then how take flight?  

The laws of nature reign, they stand, they bind,  
For man to learn, to bear the weight of pain.  
If nature’s laws will leave the weak behind,  
Then suffering becomes their bitter gain.  
"I am the God," He says, "this world, my choice—  
No morals here—no comfort, no reprieve.  
Without the hurt, the soul would lose its voice,  
The heart would close, and men would cease to grieve."  
But how can man accept a world so flawed,  
Where pain is truth, and peace must be so raw?  

"A freedom born from suffering must stand,  
It’s marked by guilt, a weight we must believe.  
But without pain, no soul would take a hand,  
And peace would die, while men would never grieve.  
So go away, if you reject the pain,  
And leave me with my world, where I, your God, remain."

A semi-truck, half-overturned, blocked the road. The driver’s cab, dangling on its broken neck, had slid into a ditch, its nose pressed against the indifferent forest. I stopped and stepped out of my small car. Coming closer, I saw the driver inside the mangled cab, pinned in an unnatural position between two seats. With effort, I pried the door open and helped him out. He muttered, as if accusing me of something, that he’d been hopelessly freezing there for nearly four hours.

-----

Upon that road, forgotten, cold, and wide,
Where naught but shadows and the frost abide,
I sped, through woods where winds like demons scream,
And silent trees stretched forth their limbs to deem
The earth beneath them barren, lost, and lone—
A desolate stretch where none had ever flown.

Then, lo! Before me, halted, firm and still,
A mighty truck lay trapped, against its will.
The wheels, lifted up high, as if the heavens frowned,
The metal beast had tumbled, earthward bound.
Its cargo—frozen—locked within the grave
Of twisted steel, where none could hope be saved.

The driver, pale, within his cage of cold,
His limbs so stiff, his breath a tale untold,
Had spent the hours in silence and despair,
While winter’s breath did mock the frozen air.
“I’ve waited long,” he said, with voice so faint,
“I’ve waited long, for freedom’s kind restraint.”

But ere the sun could sink beneath the lea,
I reached him, hands, though trembling, firm and free,
I opened wide the door, though shiver’d soul,
And bade him rise, though all the world seemed cold.
Yet words between us neither rose nor fell—
What need of speech when all the world is still?

A truck arrived, a salt-streaked carriage bright,
And plowed the road to ease our frozen plight.
But though the salt may thaw the bitter ground,
The woods, and all their whispers, lingered round.
And as I drove, the silence grew and swelled,
The same as it had been, the same as it was held.

No grand event, no tearful words of thanks,
Just shadows in the woods, where darkness ranks,
And in the stillness, deep as any tomb,
We leave the road behind, its endless gloom.

-----------

I drove the road where no one else would go,
Through winter woods where cold and silence grow.
The trees stood bare, their branches stark and long,
As though the world had left them, cold and wrong.

Then, truck ahead, its black wheels ralling high,
The body half in snow, beneath the sky—
Pale frozen driver being trapped inside,
His breath like smoke, his hands unable to hide
The numbness creeping through his frozen veins,
A prisoner to winter’s icy chains.

I slowed and stepped into the biting air,
Where shadows of the branches filled the square
Of time we share, and none could say a word—
The quiet like a song that’s never heard.
He’d waited hours, alone, beneath the sky,
His fate uncertain as the night went by.

“We ain’t working today,” I said, and sighed,
While in the cold, the hours seemed to bide.
I opened cabin's door, a crack of light,
And helped him free, beneath the dull, gray night.

A salt truck came, its hum a steady sound,
But still the forest held its weight around.
The road, the truck, the driver all were gone,
Yet still the trees, the woods, the silence shone.

No words to say, no grand, heroic deed,
Just one small act to fill the quiet need.
And though the cold still clung to every breath,
The road ahead stretched out, a road to death,
Or life, or something in between. Who knows —
The woods will take what time and frost bestows.

-----------

I drove the road where no one else had gone,
Through woods that whispered of a time long passed,
Where frost hung like a memory, heavy, still—
A world forgotten, fading into glass.

Ahead, a truck lay stranded in the snow,
Its wheels raised high, a monument to loss,
The driver, pale, his breath a cloud of fear,
His frozen hands a testament to cost.

I stopped, my thoughts adrift in cold and time,
Where shadows seemed to gather, thick and wide.
The trees, as if they knew, bowed low, resigned,
Their branches tangled, searching for a guide.

"We’re not working today," I said aloud,
As if to say the world had shifted, changed,
That time, once moving, now had paused its course,
And now, I was the one to rearrange.

The echoes of our shadows circled near,
Spinning in dizzy dance that knows no end,
As urgent tasks dissolved into the air,
For one man's suffering, I chose to mend.

In stillness, where no ticking sound could play,
I held the weight of someone else’s plea.
The world could wait, the burdens be delayed,
For random mercy sets the spirit free.

The door I opened, though my hands did shake,
And helped him out, as though the day would break.
The salt truck came, its hum a distant song,
and woods stood still around us, deep and long.

No words of thanks, no praises to be heard,
Just silence thick, as if the air had stirred.
In that small act, a world of weight was lifted,
A breath of life, where all had once been shifted.

And though the road ahead seemed dark and cold,
The forest held its peace, unspoken, bold.
No grand event, no joyous tale to tell —
where stillness fell.

----------

I drove the road where no one else would be,
Through winter woods that dripped with cold and loss.
The trees were grey, their limbs as bare as bone,
As though the world had turned its back, and tossed.

Then, up ahead, a truck lay still, half caught,
Its wheels half-buried, trapped beneath the snow.
The driver sat inside, pale as the frost,
His breath a cloud, his hands too stiff to show.

I slowed and stepped out into biting air,
Where shadows of the branches reached and fell.
The quiet hung there thick, a heavy thing,
Like something waiting, waiting to be well.

He’d sat there hours, time too cold to count,
His fate a shadow stretching past the dusk.
I am here to help, I said, he heard, half dead,
While time, like snow, was caught in frozen husk.

I opened the door, I cracked it with my hands,
I helped him free, beneath the dull gray sky.
A truck came by, the salt spread thick and wide,
But still the woods stood silent, asking why.

Yet shadows murmured of a darker hour,
A tale of death, of breath returned by force.
A man, once buried, stepped into the light—
And from his rise, the quiet world took flight.

But in that moment, when the door was moved,
A gust like bitterness through silence proved
That power, once unleashed, will cleave the stone,
And those who tremble carve their fate alone.

The truck, its grip now shattered, loosed its hold,
We stand, entangled in a dream too cold.
The resurrection, like a fading cry,
Awaits the eyes that never seek the sky.

No cheers, no thanks, just silence, like a tomb,
The weight of time still heavy on the air.
And though we left, the forest kept its gloom,
A place of endings, still too much to bear.

-------------

The road pulled me in, as though it sought my name,
Through woods that whispered tales of things long gone,
Where branches reached like fingers, cold and tame,
And frost lay thick, the air so still, so drawn.

Ahead, a truck lay trapped beneath the sky,
Its wheels raised high, a monument to snow,
The driver pale, his breath a ghostly sigh,
A prisoner to the cold, nowhere to go.

I stopped, and time seemed frozen in its course,
The woods, the air, a silence too complete.
In that still moment, I felt fate’s strange force,
A path that turned, and now no task could cheat.

I opened the door, my hands too cold to feel,
And helped the driver out, as though the world would bend.
The salt truck hummed, its engine faint, unreal,
But still the woods held all, as if to end.

No thanks, no cheers, just something quiet, deep,
A weight that lingered where the silence grew,
And though I left, the naked woods still keep
The winding road, so black, so cold, so true.