A little bird in cradle of my hands,
It is lovely, at least it just pretends;
It’s every step, a trace of paces,
Weaved in embroidery
With each its breath forming
Trace of delicate laces.
The day after another,
Its cheep is coarsen.
Rather, than flourish tacitly,
Its demeanor worsens.
You see the winter with its harsh
Arctic winds; the point of no return,
The point, when the incurable disease begins…
I should’ve contemplated fire
That emanates from sunset-golden feathers
But, seems, it wounds me repeatedly,
Warning me about impending hazards.
Phoenix, radiating with its ardor,
Which causes blood to deathly vaporize
Performs a plot-coherent arson,
Leaving a handful of an ashy ice.
Phoenix
© Copyright: Адель Вейсс, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125022503667
Свидетельство о публикации №125022503667
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