Love In Moscow Poem by Chanda Katonga

It was October 7th
when I met Yeva
on Malaya Bronnaya Street.

The cold moved quietly
through the city.

Snow descended slowly—
like white feathers
falling from heaven.

And when I looked at her,
something ancient
stirred inside me.

As if somewhere
beyond memory,
we had already met.

Her spirit shined warmly
against the winter air.

Her eyes—
deep blue,
calm as a silent lake
beneath the moon.

I greeted her in Russian.

'Hello…
my name is Chanda.'

She smiled softly.

'I am Yeva.'

And in that moment,
our eyes held each other
longer than words could speak.

The world became distant.

Only snow remained.
And breath.
And silence.

It felt as though
fate itself
had paused to watch us.

So I spoke love
without fear.

And she accepted it
without hesitation.

I was a Black man
from Africa.

She was a young Russian woman
of twenty-five winters.

Yet neither of us
saw color.

Because the soul
has no nation.

And love—
when it is real—
does not ask permission
from the world.

Before dawn arrived,
we walked beside the
Moskva River
hand in hand.

The river moved slowly
through the sleeping city,
like time itself.

Then came goodbye.

The saddest word
ever created by man.

I touched her shoulder gently.

And beneath the falling snow,
I gave her
a deep African kiss.

Her voice—
soft and golden—

like honey
falling from a sacred spoon.

'Chanda, ' she whispered,
'I have never seen
anything
that amazes me
the way you do.'

And after one final kiss,
she turned away slowly
into the white streets of Moscow.

I remained there—
silent.

Watching her disappear
into the snow
until my eyes
could no longer hold her.

But in my soul,
she remained.

Like Venus—
the morning star—
shining quietly
before sunrise.

Some people leave.

But their spirit
never truly departs.