I moanfully push my cane, my path to hew.
My friend adores the moon and worships her illusion.
A third one on the way; hey darling, is that you,
A fumbled cap to guard your sight of halted fusion?
Together, on we walk. Dry soil extends undewed,
Deserted far and wide in restless heat infusion.
The fences rise like tombs. Drains nurture rot like glue.
All buried, buried deep in hopeless elusion.
We knock the doors of grief and coffins hold the dead.
We whisper gingerly, 'Your loved's alive, just sleeping,'
But see the old lady frowning and seeping,
'Don't violate the mourning! Turn, move on I said!'
So further on we walk; and watch in building sections
A fragile ancient play of evening light reflections.
Original: slova.org.ru/blok/ya_zhalobnoi_rukoi_szhimaju_svoi_kostyl/
See also: pelevin.nov.ru/rass/pe-khrus/1.html
Alexander Blok - A third one on the way
© Copyright: Lxe, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115093000201
Свидетельство о публикации №115093000201
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