I woke up — my legs in feathers,
a beak reaching for the light.
In the mirror — half a goose,
but my soul still feels just right.
Beneath my wing — socks and passport,
in my eye — a tear, some haze.
I honk aloud in Minsk’s square,
where I once walked human ways.
They feed me grain from porcelain,
I write sad verses in the barn.
Half a swamp-born feathered creature,
half a wandering Belarusian star.
And when my homeland calls me back,
I fly — but only one-third free.
One leg’s still human, proud and aching,
the other — bronze goose legacy.
Half Goose, Half Me
© Copyright: Руслан Трохнюк, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125121803049
Свидетельство о публикации №125121803049
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