All my birds are mute and dread
Strangled with your argent thread
Now the scurry falls upon
Niveus feathers of the gone.
Winter, why you came to be?
Spruts of flame were saving me
I was breathing in the ashes,
Filling niches in the chest.
But the borey gently whispered,
Stifled fire at my feet,
And my songbirds swiftly cindered
Leaving nothing to regret.
***
© Copyright: Джайна, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114060405768
Свидетельство о публикации №114060405768
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