This tableland I look around,
With greenery deformed by strife,
Juggling with bones, a graveside sound
Tells me a story of its life:
Deflowered, defoliated,
Calls strangled streams to stony thighs
And has regrets for all that faded
In nippy weather, on the highs.
Insomnia and devastation,
My hectic pity for the past,
Through glass of glacier’s aberration
Is highly useless but too vast…
On Highs
© Copyright: Людмила Дмитриевна Назарова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125032302951
Свидетельство о публикации №125032302951
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