Here all is beautiful:
The perfect forms of wonder,
The bliss of being,
And nature — a reflection of our dreams.
Oh, Lord — sheer multiplication,And the goal, implying procreation,
Forgotten.
I’m in awe — but should I not be angry?
Or is it all a dream that wanders through me?
But why, then, can’t I sleep at night?
And why do Cupids visit in their flight —
Perhaps to hint at peace that’s drawing near?
That people will be free,
And bloom in prosperity?
And I will meet you — suddenly, one day...
Which means — in some mysterious way — twice.
The words pour out —
I know they weaken all I try to say,
I suffer from this wordplay every day.
But what to do —
When paper is admired far and wide,
Safe in warm places, honored with such pride,
While people live outside,
Unseen, recorded only in the file.
And all that’s left is etching — word by word — in exile.
Etching
© Copyright: Марина Кужман, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125050700402
Свидетельство о публикации №125050700402
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