(4) Trofimov, The Eternal Student
I speak of tomorrow in fevered breath,
each word a spark against dusk.
Revolutions churn behind my eyes,
wild as these boughs at gale-tossed dusk.
You call me dreamer—yes, I confess
I thirst for a world unbound by debt.
Yet my voice quivers in this orchard,
where change arrives on quiet feet.
.