There is an alley… It strikes me
It is the grave of what I’ve been.
The trees are only trunks. They’ll soon
Fortunately become a spoon
Or a handle of elaborate work
For a knife of the one who walks
Away… He knows another land.
My thoughts in the night move and tend
To calmly soar o’er him indeed –
Come from the earth for us forbid.
7 October 2004
The stranger
© Copyright: Дмитрий Павлов, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109073101727
Свидетельство о публикации №109073101727
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