White nights

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.