Among the frigid barren zone
Placed a small town named Riverstone,
Where once a boy was doomed to born,
To live, to grow, to read, to learn…
In many books he overthrown
No thing could be in Riverstone;
He recognized that goes astern,
Grows down like shadow on the morn.
As a verse-writing amateur,
He always held his mind astir,
That time the others lull their own
As yet in boring Riverstone.
Being a poet he could earn
The deaf and pale-eyed could return;
Star-crossed, he really was alone
In the small town of Riverstone.
He had no readers he could warn
About the stifling Riverstone
Were he was blanked and forlorn,
The queen, regarded as a drone.
Neither a river, nor a stone
Are in this verse’ on Riverstone;
And only features he had known
Described by the woebegone.
06 апреля 2004 г.
Riverstone
© Copyright: Тимофей Сель, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108012000849
Свидетельство о публикации №108012000849
Рецензии