Lenin

lenin doesn’t pose for photographs.
he simply exists.

we often find him where the light is softer,
where the grass moves slowly in the wind,
where the world feels wider and quieter than the house.

he sits there without asking for anything.
no attention.
no calling.

just watching.

as if the land is speaking
and he understands every word.

sometimes he stays so still
he almost disappears into the field —
just another small shape
between the trees and the sky.

and standing there, looking at him,
i realize

nothing is missing.
nothing needs to hurry.

maybe this is what home really is —
not walls, not plans, not things we build,

but a quiet presence
breathing with the landscape.

sometimes
i think lenin understands slow living
better than we ever will.