Poetry

Prove

In quiet labs the scholars sit, With chalk‑dust thoughts they slowly knit, Each hypothesis a whispered plea, To prove the truth that eyes can’t see. Yet love, a theorem none can chart, Needs

Clock

The old clock stands in the hallway’s hush, Its face a quiet moon of polished brass, Each tick a measured breath, each tock a blush Of time that slips like sand through an

Perch

Beneath the quiet, sun‑dappled stream, The perch in amber shadows gleam, Their sides like polished copper bright, A flash of life in liquid light. They dart through reeds where water sighs, A flash

Vodka

In a crystal glass the clear spirit gleams, A whisper of wheat, a silent stream, Neat or chilled, it warms the throat, A frosty kiss from Moscow’s note. Raise a toast to nights that

Pithy

Pithy verses, crisp as winter air, A flash of wit, a sharp‑edged glare, In fewest words the truth is spun— A jest, a truth, a thought, a pun. Each line a stone,

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