I woke up and asked with a sigh,
Why am I living, what’s my why?
Where do I wander, barefoot, alone,
Through the burning field, far from home?
The wind stirs my face, lost and worn,
Shrouded in mist, forlorn, forlorn.
No trace of joy, no light in sight,
Tears run down — my heart’s in
Black clouds — the hues of deep despair,
White birds in sorrow, heavy air.
We’re all wanderers, earth’s brief
guests,
Walk our path — then fade to rest.
The Wanderer
© Copyright: Николай Кравченко 18, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126060508491
Свидетельство о публикации №126060508491
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