Letter from Leningrad

Poem by Roger Iredale

'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

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

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