I sit behind the bars in dungeon.
Young eagle. Like a slave fed up.
My sad friend flaps his wings on
And, near window, bloody food pecks up.
Pecks, throws, looks to me in frame,
As if with me conceived the one.
And calling me by sight and cry my name
By saying mystically: “Move on!
We are free birds, my brother, time has come!
Let's fly to where clouds whiten hills,
To where seas are turning blue for some.
To where wind and me are walking still...”
A prisoner
© Copyright: Вениамин Понкратов, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119032107560
Свидетельство о публикации №119032107560
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