The tottering attire of my prayer,
Whose sheen is gone, your very whisper is
Subdued. Is there but any feeblest ray there
Amid the leaves. I hope indeed there is.
But words of old! So dun, dilapidated
You seem! No bird alive thinks you their home.
By their bright pinions aren’t your branches patted
(Your own weak wings, incapable of roam).
1 August 2007
Vainness
© Copyright: Дмитрий Павлов, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110101807748
Свидетельство о публикации №110101807748
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