The Encyclopedia of the Ukrainian Airport

In the airport white as a linen sheet,

each snowflake falls like a precious thread

onto the runway of my day,

and I weave my thoughts for you,

like embroidering your name on an old bodice.

Announcements echo like steps on a podium,

but I walk only on my own lines,

lines that trace your smile

in every fold of light,

every reflection on the fabric of the world.

The wind scatters anonymous whispers,

but I tear them like fragile cloth

that cannot hold on my silhouette.

There is no place for hate

in the perfect cut of this day.

The blizzard blocks the airport doors,

but I take the train,

car by car,

each seat a piece of cloth,

each journey a collection

where no network touches the soul.

I travel to my sister, to warmth,

and secretly weave an invisible gown for you,

where every thread is a breath,

every snowflake a gentle word,

every movement — a suspended kiss.

So listen:

even behind the cold and closed doors,

I choose beauty, I choose joy,

and you, my encyclopedia,

are the stitching that binds my pages,

the secret runway where I read you,

the light on the fabric of my heart.