To my wife Tatiana
Above our roof they stare, the stars, and frown,
They start, because you say them: “Go ahead!”
No panic for your pannikins: instead
Of stars you have the vegetables our own;
If we must buy something, it is the bread;
Whose ears are years not gone, forever grown;
By yourself sewn, could be your humbly gown
The Universe, is scarcely seen your thread,
The fleeting ray in the rapacious air,
But carelessly we play in our plight,
Major and Minor Ursa in the lair,
That is our manor where we dwell in spite
Of history whose witchcraft may be fair:
Apart we shadows and together light.
21.01.1997.
The manor
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111122804573
Свидетельство о публикации №111122804573
Рецензии