Scent of grief rising high to the mountains,
One, two - and the flight has begun.
Leaving the stings of the truth unspoken
To the face of illusion where bodies are won
As if my heart's fire is gasping and breathing
Devouring with maws all the worry and strife,
Like a sun, like a hope, a new spirit seething,
Up, higher! Like cavalry cannons, trampling the woe into dust for a life.
Clawing through, voice cracked and breaking,
Defying the stench of the face that is mute -
Clipt wings are healed, a new power awaking,
We are flying. For Good. Taking root in the blue.
To Kazakhstan
© Copyright: Айжан Усеналиева, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126022707235
Свидетельство о публикации №126022707235
Рецензии