This collection of poems is dedicated to Artyom and the various facets of his character: quiet evenings, decisive actions, and fond memories. Each miniature is a moment in his life, clothed in image and rhythm. The reader is offered ten short poems to understand and feel Artyom in a new way.
Artem at the window
He looks into the blue where the city light fades, And his shoulders bowed like a night watchman. Warm tea in his palm, a distant answer in his eyes, And the silence sharpens thoughts as sharp as a knife. He could go where the dawn never fades, But home calls him back with an old whisper. Suddenly a verse will flare in his heart - And it will become warmer, friends, Let the night keep the secret and not touch the memory with its marred air.
Letter for Artem
The envelope smells of rain and the pages of old ink. I signed: "To Artyom," and stood before the door. The words flow almost involuntarily, as if in blood, And each line is a step into his faith. He will read it in the morning, when the light is clear, And risk a smile, clutching the page in his palm. A letter is not a sentence, but a bridge among bridges, That remembers the voice of words and the steps along the path are pure.
Night call
The phone trembled in his hand like a string in the wind, And a voice said: "Artyom, come home." Outside the city, streetlights stood, as if in battle, And the cold asphalt reminded him of the battle. He stepped into the car without looking back, Only his heart told him: it's time to protect the bridges. The city is reflected in the windows, and every person is copper, And in his hand are its keys that open the bridges.
Artem in August
August holds warm days and nights in his palm, He walks through the yard where June left its mark. The grass whispers stories known only to the soil, And flocks melt into the sky like a forgotten portrait. Artyom laughs softly, letting in light, He raises his cup and thanks the day. May the world remain as light as this dinner, And may its quiet chick return to goodness.
Spring named Artem
The rook's old cry awakens in the garden, And the first leaves in the branches are like answers. He walks between the rows where snow and dust melt, His laughter is a reminder of simple things and lights. Let the wind bring the scent of wet earth, Let time be immaterial when he is near. Each of his steps is a promise that it will not rot, And each smile is an explosion of the first tones of spring.
Artem and the bridge
The night stretches its arms, and the bridge holds the silence, The light bulbs tremble like candles in the wind's palms. He walks slowly, as if time were his wing, And the streets whisper of small victories and summers. Underfoot is water that holds reflections, And in every gleam is his other name. He remembers how he learned to keep his decisions, And knows: the bridge is a choice, not just a strip of blue lines.
Early telephone
The alarm clock interrupts sleep, and the room is like a sheet of paper. He reaches for the light, where the coffee is initially bitter. In the kitchen, simple sounds, and the city still sleeps, And in the cup, a world that always beckons, reflects. Artyom gets up without rushing, as if time is equal. He knows: a day is like a poem, it can be corrected. And in his bag is a small note, what he will need, So that the word "tomorrow" becomes an action, and not just a mark.
Artem and Fire
The fire dances in the fireplace, and shadows run across the walls. He lays the wood evenly, as if he were making his plans. The flame swallows the silence and gives warmth to those who sit nearby and listen to old ramans. Artem provides light without demanding harsh words. His hands are maps of simple routes. And even when day brings the heavy rumble of worlds, He knows where to restore peace and hide his routes.
The way to work
The tram creaks, and the world awakens in a rush. He holds his bag as if it were a necessary hope. People pass by, all preoccupied with their own sins. Artyom walks confidently, avoiding senseless tears. Faces appear in the windows, like stills from an old film. He remembers that home isn't just walls. Each step is a point, not without meaning, but along the way he finds room for new, bold thoughts.
Artem's Last Light
When the day clenches into a fist and retreats, He lingers on the horizon. In this thin strip lie promises and night, And his heart counts his steps, as if in a dream. Artem smiles softly, letting go of past fears. In his palms lies a tiny world, warmed by his warmth. Let the evening bring books, and let them contain lines where his name shines, like the path home through one window.