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NEARLY TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO
“Visiting Dostoevsky’s museum was a pilgrimage. As I stood by his desk, I felt the weight of his words, timeless and true. This poem is my tribute to him, to his city, and to his legacy…”
Nearly two hundred years ago,
The ink first etched its sacred flow,
Through tortured minds and silent halls,
It shaped the world within these walls.
A city swathed in smoke and stone,
Bore witness to the seeds he’d sown.
His quill revealed the aching cries,
The human soul, its lowly skies.
Through guilt’s embrace and maddened love,
He sought the heavens up above.
His seizures—gifts, both curse and grace,
Unveiled the frailty of our race.
The spire of Peter’s dreams stood tall,
While fog embraced the river’s call.
A dual city, shadowed, bright,
Where sin and virtue shared the night.
He walked the streets where horses trod,
Where stones bore weight beneath their nod.
And in their laboured, ceaseless tread,
He felt eternity’s hymn instead.
Dostoevsky’s eyes could see
The duality of humanity.
His legacy whispers, timeless and clear,
In Peter’s mist and Dostoevsky’s sphere.