Let me, tell you a story 
It’s not my own 
But it has changed me 
Stayed with me for years 
 
Imagine cold, darkness and snow 
Imagine work and death, 
It’s XX-century, Siberia, Russia 
Yes, it’s this kind of a story 
 
But it’s not only about death 
There is also love and friendship 
But no happy ending, not in this world 
This different, strange world 
 
A Man betrayed by his own country 
Who believed in holy ideas 
Who wanted to cure the West 
Only to be taken from his mother as a traitor 
 
He had this strange relationship 
With French books 
He loved them and despised them 
Those little glimpses of freedom 
 
Yet, he loved his country 
Believed in big ideas 
He never expected that his little glimpses 
Will lead him behind the bars 
 
And our narrator, 
He didn’t believe in such ideas 
Instead he seemed to just be forgotten 
By his country, people, God 
 
The Man finds a way of surviving 
By putting his hand into a fire 
Like a sword a smith wants to forge 
Our narrator becomes a witness to that process 
 
They share tales about books, ideas, world 
The become friends, share love so strong 
That our narrator wants to take His place 
When the time comes 
 
But that is not how this world works 
It’s not a novel of manners 
Yet there is an irony in this 
A kind you can find in literature 
 
He was supposed to see his mother beforehand 
Because even if his country doesn’t need him 
She would give everything to have him back 
There is no meeting, instead he decides to leave on his own terms 
 
He doesn’t die how he leaved 
Scorching hot water flowing over him 
Yet we shall remember Him with sword out of flame 
Loved and idealistic till the end

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton