You see these words, these rhyming lines? –
You think they beauty have, or splendor?
Or maybe elegance and candor
And dreams, perhaps, the ink enshrines?
And like the notes of a composer
they sing to you their charm because of?
You think this verse is nicely rendered? –
But know then - in fibers blended
It’s only ink that here lies.
This verse – a mirror on the wall,
Of empty space and blackness breathing.
It’s lifeless born. But grows seething
With smiles and metaphors and all
That’s beauty thought. And music called.
It’s but a deadness of perfection
That comes alive with your reflection…
Feb 22 '04
Mirror
© Copyright: Маленький Принц, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104062500303
Свидетельство о публикации №104062500303
Рецензии
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