Tatiana

I sat on a frozen bench. The winters
were colder in Moscow. The sun
could not warm the dead land;
the snow as brittle as desert sand,
the clouds crept over to lend a hand,
and all heliocentric affairs were banned.

She sits on a frozen bench. The winter
becomes warm in Moscow. Her eyes
radiate heat through luminosity, her
hair flows in winds of change, her
touch spreads further than her range,
the fragrance she wears is springtime
flowers drenched in soft mountain rain,
and I fear that I will never be the same again.