Such as are forsaken words in endless fables,
which freed and eavesdropped, grown inside enamored,
you’ll find yourself a nest and turn the tables
by sneaking , as a cuckoo, bruits and glamour.
You’ll let it hatch, mature, dump out the conscience,
pull out its bill, and seize what makes the essence –
from wintriness on temples to emotions,
from tasting living to the rigors’ presence .
So much for syllables – a verdant stamen,
the tendency to reckon guards of moments.
The guards, as caravans in deserts – snooty,
received the barking, they will grind with tremors
amorphous mass of timeless lines in sonnets.
The past – a butterfly. It strikes with beauty.
March 24, 2010
Copyright ©2010 Iouri Lazirko
SonnetVI
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2010
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