Pick up a thistle,
My tired knight -
To quiet listen
And quit your fight,
Squeeze up a thistle -
Your palm is torn
And blood will glisten
Upon a thorn.
Inside your bone
This pain will fade,
What can postpone
Your last crusade?
Again the rustle
Of groves meek,
Your humble castle
Remains bleak,
It was so brittle -
Of glass and blaze -
You loved a little
Its dismal maze.
You won't extol
A maggots' love,
They've hidden soul
Beneath your glove.
With glance austere
You'll chase your course
From her - your tear
And your remorse...
Pick up a thistle,
Why not a herb -
Let no drizzle
Have you disturbed.
She'd cheat you rather,
It hurts her still
That you'd gone farther
Than ever will.
She'd only whistle
To exorcise
That prickly thistle
From your last prize.
A thistle ballad
© Copyright: Анна Антонова, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102082100554
Свидетельство о публикации №102082100554
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