There is magical beauty in wilting —
In its artlessness – simple, unfettered.
Silenced Indian summer is waiting,
It will have to ineludibly scarper.
There's a desperate longing for music,
Like a whim of inaudible woe,
Like a hope that became an illusion,
Which dissolved in the sounds of the notes.
Let the soul start relying on harmonies,
Wear its heart on its sleeve, make a home
To the fragrance of hay smelling marvelous
And the odor of soil freshly plowed.
Let the thoughts being sealed by the music bond
Find again inner piece and serenity,
Drop the burden of fears in their dead weight form,
Which turn your sheepishness into peccancy.
Let the magical sounds of the melody,
Being fond of their much-awaited latitude,
Be transformed into chords of the rhapsody
With its dancing and cheerfully playful mood.
Текст оригинала на изображении. Автор: Инна Абрамова
There is magical beauty in wilting...
© Copyright: Ирина Матюх, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124100800670
Свидетельство о публикации №124100800670
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