To beat goose to be warmed up —
Such is the fate of poor Poet.
Trying in vain to stop,
I'am writing my crying sonnet.
I step without looking back
Оn Juvenal's lonely path.
But the inevitable wrack
Awaits me along with Death.
My lines look bizarre,
Ugly and hunchbacked,
But the obsequious star
Of thoughts squeezes my neck.
I look at the distant lights
In the dead of night,
Аnd see the swaying of
The thin threads of fate.
I constantly want to browse
Them, they made
Me alive, they allow
Me to create poetry.
A lonely, cold shadow
Walks calmly, but solemnly.
The paths of thoughts wind
Like snakes, swarm like bees
Over a flower meadow.
Poetry clears my mind.
I'll fall asleep among the trees,
I'll be reflected in the lake's mirror.
21-22.02.2026.
Mirror
© Copyright: Михаил Вертепа, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126022207907
Свидетельство о публикации №126022207907
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