No one freely wanders along the runway.
The planes descend to it from heavenly heights.
It gently receives, from the sky’s terrains,
The baggage of someone’s wishful ways.
No one goes for a stroll on the runway.
The planes depart from here toward blue skies.
The trickster-wind spins and swipes
The fallen leaves of meetings away.
Upon the runway the rains keep drumming,
Storms drop their jagged lightning grin,
And only then does it finally slumber.
Peace to its dreams, peace to its dreams…
A heavy downpour swiftly washes away
The phantom trace of our past.
The Runway
© Copyright: Гульнара Элрод Умарбекова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №225121100170
Свидетельство о публикации №225121100170
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