The Sun also rises above
The Helm's deep.
When time seems to have been forsaken everyone,
Miracles come.
Each endeavour needs preparation,
A solemn anthem above
Traces of ruination,
A rumination and familiar faces
Reflected in a ruthless sky.
Where are the roots of you and I?
The Sun above the Helm's deep
Is too exhausted to be versified,
People recite prayers in their sleep,
Turning to an element divine,
Hope is a dove
That dives into the sky
After the horizon is open again.
Sunrise
© Copyright: Марина Чиянова, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123050301449
Свидетельство о публикации №123050301449
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