Through the forest, the flames of red
autumn, he silently went to a lake,
to a mirror that wanted to make
an image he longed for and won't forget.
A liquid mirror that suddenly met
a lonely sculptor, who could awake
in shiny silver a frozen snake
of true reflection, a silhouette.
Then at the lake, with child's fear,
he drank the water of dim error
that will not ease or disappear.
And there, a pale sickle wearer,
the Moon played harp so sweet to ear
deep under water, in dark terror.
TS
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102123000065
Свидетельство о публикации №102123000065
Рецензии
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