I put dry logs of English humor
into the fireplace of memory,
and straw sticks out from my shoes.
A sarcastic paradox,
a blazing flame,
and frozen feet on misery’s bunk
run as if to win a race.
A dazzling, crazy, happy face.
And the valley of the shadow of death?
No, no — a man runs through that valley only once.
The last race might also mean the first breath.
The last race might also mean the last chance.
THE COMBUSTION
Poetry Cycle by LDK
No. 1
Why is the world flammable?
© Copyright: Ленка Кроупова, 2025
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Свидетельство о публикации №125062306176
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