White Dove

Long ago and far from world
There was a village with no name.
Clouded sky was there every day,
In the night there was not a flame.

Little slum that kept aloof
And there lonely old man lived.
Shadowed by the reedy roof.
He never laughed but always grieved.

Every evening he sat by
Fire that lit his eyes,
All alone and first he stood
To meet the red sunrise.

Once a dove as white as snow
Perched beside that man.
Token of that something good
Would happen in his land.

"Didn't you make mistake,my dear?"
Asked the man in great surprise.
"To come to me at my last days"
And sorrow dimmed his eyes.

A young man saw a dove and came
To say his bitter words.
Never old man was told before
By a villager so close.

"Give me this dove,I need it more"
He said without a shame.
"My bride to wed ,my child to heal
You know, my mother's lame.

Give it to me, its happiness.
You've got not much to live."
An old man put dove in his hands
And young man then did leave.

But when the night fell down again
The bird returned to him.
They sat in silent dreamy night
Until the first sun's beam.

Three times the dove was taken off
And three times he returned.
But no one wished the old man's luck,
With envy their hate burned.

And on the fifth day older found
His bird beside the gate.
Its heart was pierced by arrow's edge
And saving was too late.

The youngster blamed the poor old man
Though he himself had killed.
And villagers showered the stones
On the old man off the guilt.

His blooded body close to dove's
Was burried on the curb.
And sky did cry a rain for them.
No other rite was served.

But far above the clouds and sky
A bird and man as bird.
Hovered together in the night
Unseen their flight unheard.

What did they see and what they found
Hence we don't know and then
Perhaps the happiness may come
Even in darkest end.


<2002>


Рецензии
A thing of Beauty! I was unable to control my tears (that's not a rare thing with me)...

Стальено   24.11.2017 19:12     Заявить о нарушении
Thank you! t's not a rare thing with me too... but it often happens when music hits me like a neil on its head ))
This story was written right the day when I saw the big white feather on my balcony. I took at and then used it as the bookmark to a poem (that was time when I had no PC at all and wrote all my verses by hand in a big squared copybook ))
The Dove itself that left his feather I've seen later - it was a big surprise. Our "uzbek" doves are usually so caslled blue-rock pigeons, pretty fat. That one, white as snow, was much bigger - really huge one ))

Today I've read your interpretation of Baudelaire's "La vie antErieure" - I wish I lived there )) Somehow the things of interior life usually suck :) It's always good and fair... but somewhere,,,

Ардаллион   24.11.2017 20:14   Заявить о нарушении