The ritual New Year’s starting.
My friend, it’s useless to escape.
The shadows dance bluffing here.
The scaffolds circle one by one.
I’m used to it, they all drink here,
discussing God and the abyss.
They sing too charming in the evening,
but as the roosters wake, they fade.
Invisible, the hood is ruling
as puppeteers. It’s masks that thrive.
The hammock of the horror spider
lulls you to vomiting from hugs.
They don’t decay for years here.
The ghosts and corpses vote still.
I dream in vain of flying out,
since brooms and wings have long been sold.
They’ll draw the ritual to ending,
been overfull of spite and fraud.
Your vein is touched by poisoned wishes,
so leave the City of the Dead.
They lie to you, since smile and flatter.
They scan each envelope of yours.
And yet, one day, they’ll die, these zombies,
immortal bodies won’t help.
December 29, 2010
Блеф. Bluff
© Copyright: Александра Крючкова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125122804427
Свидетельство о публикации №125122804427
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