For my wife Tatiana
The trail, the trial of the Universe,
Who tries to hide itself or to escape
Bewaring so the solitary shape
In emptiness, whose realm is teasing terse,
But real, elusive, but inclined to rape
This day with colours wantonly diverse,
The flowers blue and yellow to disperse
And to unite our beings, where they gape,
Our footprints, letters, where the soil is wet;
The alphabet… Was not the world of it
Created? In the air we see the pet
Of God, the squirrel. Is it not our wit?
Before the doomsday what can us acquit
Except this letter whose art is t o l e t ?
18.08.2000.
The trial
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112100510034
Свидетельство о публикации №112100510034
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