The Wound - Poem by Lyudmila Purgina
The wound - cannot be healed ever...
The heart is beating,
Pushing a blood from under the hand...
As drops on the white cloths,
The flow begins its way -
The river, which was called
The river of love - yesterday...
And then it is hardened as the black scraps
Of the former feeling on the floor...
It seemed to be so real... In the red,
Purple-scarlet flow it goes in the morn...
And a body suddenly loses its sweetness...
And loses in the silence its hopes, sincerity...
Now many efforts were done
To creat the world of love!
How little a force, only a sting, is needed
To pervert, to blacken, to cut, to percieve
The heart, still alive...
Now it is so cold...
Where could I find
The heat? ... To get a warm...
Comments about The Wound by Lyudmila Purgina
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You