Peonies

In the city where echo is the only language,
You carry peonies, torn not from the ashes,
But from memory.

Their stems are brittle, like the morning news,
But they smell…
They smell of a life that is still going on.
And then – the air raid siren.
It does not scream, it does not wail,
It simply becomes a line
On my paper.

For I am the only one holding the light,
Until I finish writing the night.