She harvests rains I dream about,
I’m waiting for, and tend to strand.
Her weary face is up the spout
with marigolds and arid pouts.
But nonetheless, she’s Motherland.
Forget-me-not, forgive-me-all.
The heart is stout and far from home,
it bears the silence made of cold.
Oh marigolds, oh marigolds,
you sowed the seeds in distant loams.
Someday, I’ll grow to be the place
for dappled birds and echoed cheeps,
and wear a mask – her weary face,
while marigolds shall blaze in Grace.
She harvests rains, she cares, yet weeps.
June 9, 2009
Copyright ©2009 Iouri Lazirko
The Land of Marigolds
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109060907248
Свидетельство о публикации №109060907248
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