The night was dark, and I was all alone.
The fantasy Le Spectre de la Rose
Was carryin' me away to an unknown
Abandoned land of laity and loss.
The echelon of fallen wayward singers
Is almost full - the only seat is left
For me to sit and flex my tired fingers
Of all the hopes unfairly bereft.
A handsome man is standing at the portal,
And idle rhymes are going up like smoke.
Is it enough, mylord, to be immortal?
Is it of worth to write and slowly choke?
Will all my lines so toilsome and tender
Tell everybody else the final cost:
"The second best poetical contender
Had fought with Death implacably and lost".
I'll turn into the wet of autumn showers
And would be glad to flutter like a moth,
Which leaves a drop of pollen in the flowers,
Spreads crystal wings, takes off and goes forth.
The night was dark, and I was all alone...
© Copyright: Ксения Хрусталева, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113041603946
Свидетельство о публикации №113041603946
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