I lifted breath from letters found on pages.
I discovered sounds missing from my throat:
the rustling of the leaves, the letter, ы.
If I were to draw a map formed of words,
the first country would be marked, thou--ты.
Мы--we--вы--you all--would comprise a continent.
It is plain to see--I cannot live without Ы.
(Inspired by this unbelievable article on Vladimir Zhirinovsky's temper tantrum regarding the letter, ы.)
Perhaps it has been too long since Zhirinovsky watched Crocodile Gena and Cheburashka.