Kuda, Kuda

Is love an innocent flame
or saviour for a beaten soul?
Does love leave innocence aflame,
or bring life to the bitterest cold?

For what does the heart crave
in the flaring shadows?
For what does the heart rave
in the heartless hollows?

So often do the pages turn
to a tosca for the pages turned,
for the flares in a diamond urn,
for courage that fear had spurned.

Such are the seasons of buskin,
when snow falls upon October;
the flattering waistcoat of Pushkin
has parted with September.

If love must by jest be earned
and pass on their inky cloak,
alone shall his soul be burned
and perish in his nightly abode.

Let the roaring of the waves
take me into the deepest folds,
so that her most merciful graves
may bear our earthly sorrows.

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Published in: on 03/02/2019 at 2:06 AM  Leave a Comment  

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