(review by Andrey Chekmarev/Андрей Чекмарев
в ответ на моё http://www.stihi.ru/2013/03/30/7276)
Too much of despair reflects in these windows,
In sky which is blue over old chestnut-tree,
In path by our home that now vaguely winds.
In days of this present which run ever free.
My own despair is aim for headshrinker.
It’s like stubborn patient who’s sure he’s right.
Who lives with a hope for tomorrow-the- bringer.
Who is somehow ludicrous in his nakedness sight.
This cry is getting lost in laugh.
This cry is tearing me apart.
This cry is cry of cripple beaten up.
It’s drumming in my head and heart.
A weekness and exinanition
In every second they both weep.
Aloofness comes as if a mission
to make my difference complete.
My desperation, ravishment and rescue,
My hopelessness, conniption and a cry,
My freedom is of me secure placement…
Am I a man of years or I’m a child?..
Despair
© Copyright: Ангела Франклин, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113040209104
Свидетельство о публикации №113040209104
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