Ink and the Winter Light — A 19th Century Russian Literary Ballad | Inspired by Lev Tolstoy

By candle glow,

the midnight hush stands still.

At the ancient desk,

wanders a restless will.

Beyond the glass, the snow forgets his

name and tread.

But paper keeps

the breath of all the years he's led.

The pages sigh like winter winds across

the plain.

Deep thoughts descend and settle in his

gaze like rain.

In every line a silent war no voice can

say.

In every word

a different world unveiled in gray.

The smoke of sense as pale as some

forgotten dream.

And drifting tails flow softly in a

voiceless stream.

From pipe to ceiling climbs a fragile

silver thread.

No heart can order dreams to vanish or

be dead.

>> Ink on the page. The hidden heart is

laid inside

through Russ's breath.

>> The quiet line begins its flight.

White endless fields and human souls in

living flame.

Both pain and hope obey the same eternal

name.

Write every sorrow. Embrace the word of

God

till darkness heals and lets the coming

years be drawn.

Each page will rise like life returning

from the deep.

Each morning breaks the night we thought

we had to keep.

Old letters fade beneath the burden of

the years.

Yet silent vows still guard their gentle

light through tears.

The names dissolve like smoke that

vanishes on high.

But truth remains

in every line that will not die.

Five village bells drift slowly through

the silver air.

Footprints are gone beneath the morning

snowy glare.

Love and remorse have shared the same

uncertain room.

Human souls live openly in written

bloom.

The candle shakes, the bending shadows

kiss the wall.

Each ending searches faith before the

final fall.

From quiet depths, a softened voice

begins to rise.

Unlived worlds are mirrored in his weary

eyes.

The hidden heart is laid inside

through rushes.

The quiet line begins its fly.

White endless fields and human souls in

living flame.

Both pain and hope obey the same eternal

name.

every sorrow

of

till darkness heals and let the coming

years be.

Each page will rise like life returning

from the deep.

Each morning breaks the night we thought

we had to keep.

The smoke becomes a distant road, narrow

and long.

It carries doubt and fear and truth in

muted song.

Faces drift by in silver rivers of the

night.

Soldiers and farmers, children crowned

in fragile light.

The quill descends upon a trembling

living line.

And time stands still upon its fragile

edge so fine.

Yet in each uneven traces quiet hand is

made.

Eternity still pulses by destiny

displayed.

>> Ink and the snow. The breath of living

and of death.

Love and forgiveness teach the soul its

deeper breath.

From silent rooms to endless pale and

open lands.

Our hearts remain the same. Though time

slips through our hands

>> right till the candle's fading flame

dissolves in gray

till morning pours it silver white

across the day

in ash and snow and wordless hush where

shadows lie

only the words of our own souls will

never

The pipe grows cold. The pages are their

quiet peace.

The night is all like river that starts

to cease.

And somewhere in the shining stillness,

pure and wide.

A newborn story wakes where living

silences

reside.