They come inside; disperse its light in morae
and harrow Truth. Through capillary rivers
their ships with loaded wine and allegories
upheave in magma’s ways, pinch minds like slivers.
A heart is crowdless, avalanched by worries
with teardrops strong enough to melt the shivers,
see in the bottled seas memento mori.
By reaching bottom you can sense your liver.
A hoary light comes to a nave for prayers.
Up to a vault the darkness lost its meadow,
an organist spreads fingers, silence vapors.
Oh, my subduedness with fluffy layers,
I’ll hit your golden spot to scoop up shadows,
to jot down stillness on a piece of paper.
November 2, 2010
Sonnet XIV
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110110207753
Свидетельство о публикации №110110207753
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