the third poem,
to a father from a daughter who
did not know what she had

dearest father,
hear my cries of
s o r r o w,

hear them echo
from the void,
r a t t l i n g,

tell my mother
i love her,
p l e a s e,

tell her i'm
sorry for my
s i n s,

tell her that
my dear brother
feels is at
p e a c e.

his soul is still
as pure as it was in
l i f e,

despite my best
attempts to
d e s t r o y.

remind yourself that
you tried your very
b e s t,

to save me.
i was just intent on
d e a t h,

it called to me,
it still does,
s i n g i n g,

but now it
is not so
d e a f e n i n g.

but, oh!

oh, how it
l i n g e r s
-LUSINE ARGENT VOLKOV