The ground is white whether of snow or spume,
Or, may be, white rose-petals fall.
The even roads cover the distance
From northern frost to southern dawn.
The blackest ocean of the space
Gives rise to foam of stormy breakers.
In pearl hail pattern of the stars
Is sewn the view of the sky’s chasm.
The fallen cupola of night
Shadowed no fair beaming brightly,
So the eternal folds of the abyss
Do not dare spoil the whiting.
And suddenly, with the dense cloud
Rushing through the precipice of heights,
He flies among the stars
And tears with crash the vault of skies.
Upon the places of the crystal curved,
Wrapped in a mist of spaciousness of valleys,
The born darkness from light – Dark Lord,
He falls so beautiful and stately.
He tramples slowly on the petals
In clothes of the son of Night.
Behind fragility the black heart
He carefully wants to hide.
White Black
© Copyright: Алла Антарес, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110091806161
Свидетельство о публикации №110091806161
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