In Moscow's heart where shadows blend,

The spirit of Lenin takes a stroll,

Across the Red Square, quiet yet bold,

He lights a smoke, a moment to lend.

Pillars of history whisper his name,

As clouds of thought in the cool air rise,

Reflecting the past where dreams once came,

With every puff, a silent reprise.

Red Square sighs,

Lenin's ghost walks slow,

A smoke drifts by,

Winter winds softly blow,

History's echoes rise.

He walks through time, in solemn grace,

A ghost of ideals, a breath of strife,

Cigarettes glowing in a timeless space,

In the pulse of a city, a piece of life.