A tired turtle, small head, long neck
moves along without aim.
Some people notice her bulky frame
but not the Destiny on her back.
A weary shadow, soft-edged and black,
just crawls behind - they are the same.
Dark trees play requiem, shake in shame,
oh skin of fear, oh wrinkled sack!
And if you touch her, you learn old age,
and if you look in her grieving eyes
you gain calm of an Eastern sage,
you hear trumpets and distant cries,
and so unfolds on a theatre stage
a play that youths do not recognise.
Destiny
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102122600421
Свидетельство о публикации №102122600421
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