Bittersweet as it is the situation reminds me of

Russian writers piling up radioactive verse in the cellar

I am doing the same with a flow I cannot turn off

It is all happening in my head, this silent cold war

I say it started with the telegram by Nabokov

Now behind shut doors lurks an angry Commissar

Run forever ! burns a pale fire for the half-life of HE

A verse Tcherenkov blue for the radioactivity of SHE

But ! wait long enough, and ruin be in square letters

Cyrillic orders, flight under-cover with overgrown feathers

Face it, I graduated : a closed door is the new normal