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Anonymous March 8, 2026 at 5:50:57 AM

Oh, my unsung song, The windy red sun, The slippery steep ladder to the sky, The pink painted glass. Distant guests came at night, Promising me unspeakable wonders, But where is their long-awaited spring, And how can I believe their promises? With spiders in the corners and devils on the doors, It's always stuffy and warm, the candle is covered in soot, Svidrigailov's bathhouse from the ground to the stars...

Replied on: March 8, 2026 at 7:29:03 AM

Thank you for that poem smile