A passport isn't just a book with a photograph; it's a distillation of life, its formal recognition. It reflects moves, changes, growing up, and even moments we'd like to forget. This document is the key to rights and responsibilities, but at the same time, it can feel like a cage restricting freedom. In these poems, I've attempted to capture the various facets of this small but significant testimony to our identity, from bureaucratic absurdity to personal experiences.
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Print as a keepsake
A portrait is pressed into laminated cardboard, And a border stamp, like a sign of fate. It holds the naive silhouette of youth, And echoes of that distant struggle. It remembers my first timid ticket, And the cities I saw from the window. It holds the invisible trace of time, And the story that is given to me alone.
Substitution of truth
The paper's strict, measured tone, And a photograph that looks into nowhere. In it, my life, as if a standard, But only scraps, shadows, and emptiness. In it, a residence permit, like a heavy burden, And the date of issue, like a sentence. It knows everything, but is silent and ace, Keeping the secrets of years lived. It is a copy, not the soul itself, And a reflection that is easily broken. In it, the truth is only half good, And a lie that must be accepted with meekness.
Best before date
Five years – and then I stand in line again, to replace the outdated, faded portrait. How quickly life can flee, and how absurdly this fact is noticed. It reflects times lived, and the scars of time that cannot be erased. It is a symbol of the eternal cycle, captivity, and inevitability that must be seen. It remembers joy, grief, and sorrow, and the faces of those who were with me on the journey. It is a faithful companion, devoted to sorrow, and a silent witness, impossible to escape. But time has passed, and I must renew my story, again and again.
Pages of life
It contains stamps and visas, like letters, stories of travels, distant and foreign. And each page is so important, like the memory of familiar moments. It has seen the sun, rain, and the first snow, and cities that are forever in the heart. It is my witness, my reliable shore, and a quiet, invisible star. It remembers meetings, partings, pain, and the joy of new, bright, kind days. It is the faithful password of my life, and a reflection of the passions lived.
Destiny number
Numbers and letters are a strange, secret code, That determines my path and my destiny. It is like a sentence, it is like the fruit of all the choices I have already made. Within it lies a secret that cannot be unraveled, And a destiny that lies ahead. It can give hope, it can compress, And lead me through the labyrinth of life. It is only a formality, a simple document, But within it lies my fate. It is my pass, my stern argument, And an eternal, invisible struggle.
Bureaucratic sleep
The office is silent, and the light is dusty, And the official peers through his glasses. He asks: "Who are you? Where are you from? Do you have any sins?" He stamps, writes like a robot, And sees nothing in people, Only a number, an address, a strict protocol, And a formal, dry line. He is part of a system, complex and deaf, Where a person is just a cog, a mere shadow. And in this dream, joyless, empty, I feel just like a stump.
Personal territory
It contains my name, patronymic, and year of birth, and the place where I first took my breath. It is a memory card, my possession, and the secret world I have found within myself. It knows everything: my dreams and fears, and the secrets I will not tell. It is my reliable, faithful guardian, my fear, and the quiet haven where I am resurrected. It is a part of me, my personal essence, and a reflection of my soul. It is my lighthouse, my faithful, quiet path, and the light of hope in the darkness of days.
Lost document
My pocket is empty, my heart is pounding, my mind is filled with anxiety and fear. Where did he go, my friend? Without him, I feel empty and deaf. He is the key to freedom, to life and dreams, Without him, I am nothing, just a shadow in the crowd. I search for him in panic, in tears, Hoping to find him within myself. But time slips away like smoke, And fear grows like a dark wave. I have lost myself, I have become someone else, Without this document, without wine.
New photo
Once again, a photographer, a flash, a stern gaze, And a new image that changes life. In it, a series of years reflected, And the quiet whisper of those fading away. I see myself in it completely differently, Than before, in my youth, with a naive look. In it, maturity, wisdom, a beacon of life, And the imprint of years lived in a row. It is a symbol of change, and a new start, And a chance to begin all over again, from scratch. It is a reflection of my soul, like March, And faith in what fate awaits me.
Foreign stamp
It bears the imprint of a foreign land, And the scent of the sea, sun, and flowers. It speaks of what I have traveled, And seen the world without fear or shackles. It is a symbol of new encounters and new dreams, And impressions that cannot be conveyed. It is like a key to secrets and threats, And a chance to test one's destiny. It is a memory of distant shores, And of people who have become close to me. It is like a song in my lips, And a reflection of a bright streak.
Witness of time
He has seen ups, downs, sorrow, the joy of meetings and the grief of parting. He is a faithful companion, he is my tablet, and the chronicle of my memories. He remembers youth, first love, and the first steps into the big world. He is like an angel sent from heaven, and a quiet voice that sounds within. He is a witness of time, my friend, and a silent guardian of my fate. He is like a compass that guides around, and in the labyrinth of life – the light of a star.
Fear of loss
It contains all my freedom and rights, And the right to live, love and create. And the thought that there could be interest, And I can't give up this document. I guard it like a talisman, As a symbol of faith, hope and love. It is my protector, my reliable support, And a reflection of the bright side. But the fear of loss gnaws from within, And quietly whispers: "Everything could be wrong." And I am ready to do anything to save my passport, my reliable beacon.
Waiting for replacement
The line stands frozen in silent captivity, each awaiting their brief role. We are all equal here, in anticipation, well, and in anticipation of replacement, of pain. We are shadows of the past, and shadows of dreams, and faces that fate has brought together. We are like leaves that carry frost, and we wait for warmth to come. But time drags on like an eternal dream, and the official is in no hurry to seal the deal. And in this hall, filled with quiet groans, we wait for our happiness to come.
Expired
The paper has yellowed like a leaf, and the photograph has lost its shine. It carries the whistle of years gone by, and the quiet whisper of passing milestones. It is no longer valid, alas, and will no longer open doors for me. It is like a ghost from another chapter, and a memory of bygone, bright days. But I keep it always in my heart, as a symbol of youth, hope, and love. It is a part of me, my destiny, a star, and a reflection of the bright side.