As dying nightfall pledges parting,
Unfolding gloomy mysteries of distant stars,
I gaze upon all else, but darkening
Of night as black as wing of crow, alas…
But darkness brings not only sorrow:
It grants us dreams of brightest, joyest day,
That disappears as quick as comes the morrow,
Misguiding by awakening that leads astray.
And even if the morrow’s sadly barren
Of dreams and promises that may not come -
Our words and memories are now forever graven
In our hearts: rebellious and quarrelsome.
An exile, pilgrim, forced to travel north.
Now I may never shrug again, like Atlas,
With heavy burden that I carry forth:
My heart, as black as wing of crow, alas…
Crows wing
© Copyright: Дениска Иванов, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116102406772
Свидетельство о публикации №116102406772
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