The sullen stranger is the rain,
The silence is his hissing strain.
We go through forest, and we talk,
And suddenly above an oak
We see the rainbow; is it sign
Of our heavenly decline?
Or in reality it is
Asylum Silence, where the bliss
Reigns with the rains too; we say “sky”,
And if it is the lonely sigh
Of God; it whispers, and it sings
In many shy and shining things;
And tokens, talking, us invite:
Your native country is the light.
1995
The rainbow
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113031111231
Свидетельство о публикации №113031111231
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