Years ago
I could see white nights,
White knights,
The best tradition was to sever
Before the bridges went apart.
The best tradition was to stop thinking
Of green bogs
And houses built on blood and loneliness.
The best tradition was to start rolling,
Swirling, nearly drowning
In one famous river
And to keep looking for shadows and ghosts.
Some people went further,
And their presence would stay between clouds,
Above the city
And its long riverbanks.
The best tradition was to keep moving
On with sadness
And pain
Of long and cold nights
With bridges falling apart.
*NB! It's a reminiscence of Saint-Petersburg in late 2010.
