White Nights Vii More Dead Than Alive

A small boy was holding a pony,
A small of horse of the kind and owned by the Khan,
We did not know whether it was a pet or to earn a living,
We saw a small kid riding it; the pony's mane had been washed,
With shampoo and water.

While we were walking down the street and in shadows of walls,
An unassuming building made of stone was the hub of treasures,
Distinct, colorful with loud music.

The ambience on the corner was like old tavern.
We knew what prevails is the soft soul here,
Laid back.

Drinking to the tune of silence,
All things here induce sleep.
The night is so motherly and the day is so tender.
I was more dead than alive,
With ease that I departed and the ease that I wrapped myself,
In warmth.
Would Dostoyevsky write a better account?
His White Nights were so heart warming.
I could get to the spirit of Aryan blood.
So ferocious and so tamed.

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