To Varvara

they were all suddenly burning
they were burning and wanting evenings never to end
and when fragrant evenings became too dark to bear, almost like nights
they flamed even more, waited for calls, caught taxis and quietened down
as if it was sacred or happiness

and even in the mornings, covered in dust and sun
it was all so real and tangible, and they had coffee stains to prove it
and yet one could tell the difference
and it was all just a promise of different lives
that gets in through those half open windows of theirs