It's often not a fatal sickness,
Yet daily bears its piercing thorn.
Our mind still keeps its edge and quickness,
Our body grows both frail and worn.
We sink like shadows into weakness;
Each longs for fading light to stay,
Before the night of endless bleakness
Wrings every gleam of hope to clay.
Step by step, fate's wheel is turning.
What is false, and what is true?
I need the one who knows my yearning:
Seeing my pain gives me a clue.
Some refuse to seek the treatment,
But I have seen that it exists!
And the one, whose kind achievement
Grants me strength to brave the mists—
Whose hands, in grace, perform the holy,
Who leads me strictly through my strife.
With his heart, profound and wholly,
He brings me “The Sign of Life”.
The Sign of Life
© Copyright: Игорь Поликарпов, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125081900678
Свидетельство о публикации №125081900678
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