"...and then I awoke
and found me dead
on the cold hillside".
…And then I awoke,
And darkness around,
And dead love-fire smoke,
And cold hill-side ground…
And wounded by nearness,
A wren hung its wings,
Collecting a weakness
Of winters to springs.
Joy’s heavy desire
Mixed up with a doubt –
I’m really tired
Among insane crowd.
One thing I do know:
Love would never hurt it –
Me, part of your soul,
Me, poor colored birdie…
Wounded Wren
© Copyright: Людмила Дмитриевна Назарова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125012402156
Свидетельство о публикации №125012402156
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