The Portal of mirrors
has yet no bounds.
Let’s drift into dreams,
just ignoring the clock.
We’ll pass through the mist.
Who does care about
the damned ones, both left
by the Devil and God?
September has shuffled
the cards of the maple.
The shelter’s abandoned,
we’ll fly in like leaves.
The books are asleep
as the chimney, the candles,
And only the winds
are still singing the hymns.
Don’t let me wake up, ghost!
What’s really more precious
among spectral gifts
to the poor dead souls
than comrade the Portal
and, trembly delicious,
the bridges towards mists
of the ruined past worlds?
September 11, 2009
Забытый сон. A forgotten dream
© Copyright: Александра Крючкова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125110700352
Свидетельство о публикации №125110700352
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