I'm standing on the deck among the others.
No sign of probable uniqueness shown.
We all abandoned love ones, land, our mothers.
We all have bags and jackets roughly sewn.
We hope, that Earth revolves too quickly,
and vessel won't arrive at destination.
So dull, that ship's newspaper weekly
in vomiting sees clearly a sensation.
It should have been the start of something new.
But all that seen is seaguls, skies and water.
I'm standing on the deck and drinking brew,
burnt-out by both equator and a quarter.
Hope Earth revolving speed has been increased,
and somehow we are being wafted backwards.
Exile
© Copyright: Артем Хабипов, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115060708019
Свидетельство о публикации №115060708019
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