My bones they shake, my teeth they grate,
Upon this cold – yet sunlit – date.
A March morning, sharp and bright,
I shiver in the teasing light.
But I will be the April rain,
That washes clear the weary plain.
Exquisite, joyful, long-awaited,
Through mists where fate is still debated.
No blizzard dares to do me harm –
I feel the rush, the vital charm.
I am the surge, the inspiration,
The will that craves the culmination!
I am a thing of woven words,
A crossing where the cosmos herds
Its meanings vast, and yet I’m made
Of tender sighs, of joys displayed.
And in my hair, so black, so deep,
Where pitch-black curls their vigil keep,
There laughs and weeps – both fierce and free –
The Wind of Goettingen through me!
2023
Wind of Goettingen
© Copyright: Константин Феофанов, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126031804307
Свидетельство о публикации №126031804307
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