To B. Pasternak

Dis-tances: miles, versts…
They dis-pelled us until we dis-persed,
So we would act as we were told
In two corners of the world.

Dis-tances: versts, spaces…
They dislocated us, they displaced us,
They disjoined us, crucified on display,
And observed there, to their dismay,

How our tendons joined, our ideas broadened…
Without discord, - just in disorder,
Distorted….
Disconnected by a wall and a dike.
They disbanded us like

Eagles-conspirators: versts, spaces…
Not disunited, - they disengaged us.
Across the slums of the globe’s range
Like orphans, we’re disarranged.

For how many Marches, have our hearts
Been cut like a deck of cards?!