We bore the thorns to wipe it
to ages densely pressed
when Artemis of Wildland
could hardly care less.
When pools of Styx came close
to shores of twilight chills,
we braided her arrows
from under running wheels.
A harp is no comfort,
a bullet's no scratch,
the earth is never calm for
the one who tore the latch,
who lulled in an all weather suit
his quiet "gonna blast",
who led his weightless unit
to grass roots' underpass.
By glaciers and prairies,
by whip of praise and par
absorb the bitter air,
inhale the wormwood star,
alloy from icy ground
the stellar roll of dice,
the lethal outbound
to promised paradise.
Translation approved and distribution authorized by the author.
Original: mumidol.ru/gorod/seeds.htm#12
Video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=T58JxjOvgBg
Horsemen of the Absent
© Copyright: Lxe, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116010500987
Свидетельство о публикации №116010500987
Рецензии