The grief and happiness, the joyful deeds and sad,
All senses buried in the dampness of the grave.
There are no dreams, no wishes, would You like to crave
For life's enjoyments notwithstanding You are dead?
Sepulchral silence reigns in chamber of the vault,
Eternal darkness and tranquility of tomb
Prevails forever in the Death's almighty womb;
Could You conceal Yourself from Her devouring cold?
Attempts are useless, friend of mine, She always wins;
The ugly, wrinkled, plague-stricken scold crone,
The putrefaction's queen, She sits on rotten throne,
Which's made of body's parts, of skulls and broken ribs.
Whate'er You dost, what'er the purpose You would pose,
Once, Тhou fade in Her embrace like withered rose.
Sonnet 2
© Copyright: Александр Иовлев, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109111306896
Свидетельство о публикации №109111306896
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