A chain of thousand pearls
Is naught but an unwilling snare,
Bestowed on your neck by your true foe.
And in this midst you must prepare
For the worst, and cunningly, with care,
To overcome this spiteful host.
To win the fight that none hath fought before,
The rub is not to fleet but dare
With none but fiery gaze of something more.
Her tears the nature sheds on thee
Are not of woe, but of glee.
When one doth cry of happiness,
You this must know:
Those tears are meant for thee,
And not for thy true foe.
A chain of thousand pearls
© Copyright: Вера Драгилева, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125071406489
Свидетельство о публикации №125071406489
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