He's rushing through the smoky clouds.
Collecting evils is his aim.
In fatal storms himself he finds.
He is obsessed with foam of river banks.
Among the leaves of yellow, flown,
There is his motionless great throne;
Among numb winds he sits alone:
He's dull and gloomy on his own.
Despising pure love at all,
He makes all people be distrusted.
On seeing blood he has control.
And prayers are rejected, busted.
He heard a lot of high sensations
He presses them with passion cry.
The muse of gentle inspirations
Fears his unearthly eyes.
(М.Ю.Лермонтов "Мой демон")
My Demon
© Copyright: Герман Акеев, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121091506915
Свидетельство о публикации №121091506915
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