Hot strings of pain let me realise—
I moved so much, with vigor, with posass.
They pull, their pinch’s relentlessly unkind,
They play grim melodies like crazy-gone quitar.
The Do, Ra, Me do sound like a scritch,
Fa, Sol, La, Si — so speedily they switch
From calm to ache, from happiness to gloom,
For strength and zeal not leaving any room.
And I am left to play the straying strings,
Walk on the tip-toes, yield with stoic face,
So wanting to reverse Fa, Sol, La, Si,
So tired of their overpowering stance.
Redo Do, Ra for me! For so I see —
My soul, lasso strung, can go no more.
So far in stingy meadows lamely I abide,
In solace framed, as the outside indoors.
I'll fix my guitar! I'll springe! I'll overcome it!
I'll claim what's mine! I'll fix the Me-Fa-Sols.
But now, until that day, D-o-o-o, let me be,
And quiet down, R-r-r-ra, I need my sleep.
Strings of Pain
© Copyright: Гульнара Элрод Умарбекова, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №219012001586
Свидетельство о публикации №219012001586
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