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If you liked it, please support the author with a like and a subscription (or even a repost). * * * * That damned year had already lasted for many years, I sometimes crawled out of the hospital bed. I raked up my fragments and shards and reconstructed my skeleton. And stole myself from the sensitive nurses, smelling the sharp scent of freedom with my nostrils, I ran to my two-year-old granddaughter Olya, there, to the space smelling of life. Olya and I went to the children's park, sat on our favorite swings, drank juice, ate ice cream, stared at the dogs walking. There were a lot of rides, but the day was burning, and the sun was cooling, And Olya was tired, lagging behind and quietly whining, grandpa, wait. Leaving Sunday behind, I returned to the hospital walls of the guests, But even in the ward I heard Olya's voice: "Give me your hand, Grandpa, Grandpa, wait..." And I waited, waited, as much as I could, and those in the neighboring beds were not waiting, They were dying, drying up, pining away, leaving, no one asked them to wait. When I feel a burning in my chest, I see how from the other side of the field Little Olya is rushing towards me with a heart-rending cry: "Grandpa-a-a, wait-a-and..." And I wait, I still wait, and it seems I can endure any torment, As long as I still hold that tiny hand in my exhausted hand. If you liked this poem, I recommend that you also familiarize yourself with other works by this great man.