The friends we love, the ones who part,
Slip into void or endless heart.
The towns that raised them, stone and steel,
Remain behind, unable to feel.
They do not mark the quick goodbye
Of those who rush, who soar, who fly.
But still the fire, the hope, survives
In those who carry on their lives…
Do you remember, long ago,
In that translucent era’s glow,
You spoke of promises held tight
In verses sad, yet full of light?
You stirred the embers of my mind,
Dreamed passions of a fervent kind.
With nowhere left for you to turn,
You burned yourself, and let bridges burn.
You poured your life into the air –
A sketch of joy, a fleeting flare.
Yet your ethereal poems gleam,
Tender as a waking dream.
2014
The Death of the Poet
© Copyright: Константин Феофанов, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126031804001
Свидетельство о публикации №126031804001
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