There are some days, meant for a silent torture;
You see them dawning, wishing them to end.
St. Valentine’s – a plague for the ill-fortuned
Whose broken lives nobody wants to mend.
I hate these cards and little heart-shaped boxes,
And sweet words that so often sound a trite.
St. Valentine’s - when envy can be toxic,
More dangerous than jealousy and spite.
Deep-rooted envy lurks in my intestines;
At times it makes me sick and drives me mad.
I envy all those breeding and those nesting,
I envy all those sharing the same bed.
I can’t help grieving, watching the buoyant;
Let cards and ribbons entertain the crowd.
St. Valentine’s – and chagrin is so poignant,
A wretched day when I feel I’m left out.
There are some days
© Copyright: Ирина Манохина, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110012901796
Свидетельство о публикации №110012901796
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