The wings to fly inside my ego deeply,
prepare yourselves for nine-gram-heaven hassles.
The battle’s riverbed has shriveled steeply,
loopholes become birdnests, voids sealed off castles.
The flight through temples makes my ego dribbling
with scents of knells in gilt and silent vessels.
Concealed my icons, they are not for scribbling.
Obtained them to unframe and left to nestle.
My soul is open as a death-old letter,
numb words keep nesting down in a thesaurus.
They feed their chicks with hums and mudras’ dancing.
I sharp the edges where the soundless matter’s
utmost thickset for eardrums’ museful chorus.
The sonnets launched out of the bow of sensing.
October 12, 2010
Sonnet XII
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110101207804
Свидетельство о публикации №110101207804
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