The man was ill and blind,
cursed with a blight fate.
He wanted to create,
to test his heart and mind,
but cruelty was combined
with fear and oiled hate.
Served on a dinner plate
was salad of bitter kind.
Why me? - he gave a groan
Why not? – a simple reply,
and everyone is alone,
and everyone comes to die,
to hear a fine song -
the flight of a butterfly
Black song
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102122700287
Свидетельство о публикации №102122700287
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