Who dug out brother’s graves for self and neighbors?
Gun muzzles gape and muzzy eyes turn glassy.
A death squad hangs on triggers for a saber.
It‘s going down and draws off blood for bathing.
A body covers bodies, death’s in labor.
The shallowness of trench is brimmed and messy.
Gunpowder smoke is sensed as censers` vapor,
unravels silence by uncrowning shells` seams,
removes the cores of casualties and quickly
ignites the way for fires of bereavement.
It’s time to whistle, pull out winds, be reckless.
The sky is blue, incapable of trickling.
A bullet rain brings peace with its achievement.
The scattered world is an unthreaded necklace.
June 25, 2010
Sonnet X
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110062506309
Свидетельство о публикации №110062506309
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