'I hardly write through hollow blackened fingers here between the blizzards and those guns, eternal casual guns we live to hate.' Photo: by Jonny Gios on Unsplash
Letter from Leningrad
Poem by Roger Iredale
Liebschen, forgive me one last letter out of lands
bereft of God. Such frost, such cold,
I hardly write through hollow blackened fingers
here between the blizzards and those guns, eternal
casual guns we live to hate. Eyes iced
with bitterness that twists and locks each bone