/I’m taking the Sacral Sound
And just changing it like the fonts/
I’m an abstract exhausted crowd
In a mantle of needs and thoughts.
I‘m the deity in filthy shroud
Of indifference and the rots.
I mourn stones that is down my boots -
Those that never became the house.
I’m a prey for the rotten roots
In their madness and twisted sprouts.
I’m a hermit whose dreams are strong:
Whether lied I, or stole, or masked.
I’m everything what this Song
Never put into my soul flask.
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Данное произведение является художественным авторским переводом стихотворения "Исповедь"
http://stihi.ru/2020/03/14/943
The shrift
© Copyright: Май Вихрев, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125071704465
Свидетельство о публикации №125071704465
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