My Donna, no, don’t greet me with derision!
I wish you knew how desperately I missed
Your fair mirage, which garbled clear vision
With red-blood ribbons fastened to your wrist.
So chaste and true can only be a saint
Forsworn by church, forgotten in a myth.
I fear your name will be with time as faint
As fading flowers dying in your wreath.
Your brazen curls have turned into my tether,
And kindled will is stifled in a cage.
I owe to you the freedom of a feather –
So be with you the beauty of a sage.
So let us hear our inner voices tremble:
I’m calling you, put down your mirror, start
And heal my sins if, God forbid, they ramble,
Uncured weals in my spring-scented heart.
My Donna, no, don t greet me with derision!
© Copyright: Ксения Хрусталева, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113091508398
Свидетельство о публикации №113091508398
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