One day I’ll vanish, and you won’t know when I’ll be back,
Through a wide-open door, with a key that leads to the source painted black.
Amid their judging glare, with no time for tears or endless prayers — the truth resides in solitude,
The doubtful crowd’s ceaseless noise flows through your bitter voice, shaping into an attitude.
— Will its torment never cease?
I left it all and locked the door — the freedom rises in peace!
You see through glass, darkly,
with your eyes that are deeply pearled —
then, face to face,
you’ll glimpse
the place we both once hurled.
The World We Once Hurled
© Copyright: Артём Борозенцев, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125102907109
Свидетельство о публикации №125102907109
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