The morning
The dark of night awaits,
Playing its calm carousel,
Draping the damp dementia
Of the late last evening,
When the part of the particle broke, Into two,
the bright bismuth and midnight blue,
Rest resulted in a sleep,
slumbering in a shallow cloak,
The stream of a running light, tapped against my door,
The dog rubbed its paws,
Wagging the tail, for a few moments, in hope,
The morning, today again is slow,
It kicks me left and right,
But the day is dumb, as much, the night was neatly numb,
I opened the latch of the door,
The morning stands, hesitant, out on the floor,
My wish to call her in,
She understands, but I do not speak, Why?
The God, only knows,
The morning, in me is the sand, awaits,
away at the shore, We never meet indoor,
She pays me a visit at the gate and goes,
Back to the back waters,
My abyss misses again an admirable acquaintance,
As she posed,
to say a goodbye,
Was wanting to be the sea,
The Moon of monotony moans,
I hang like a broom stick in the corner,
Ready, lazily for the chores,
The morning, without waking the waves,
Once again it goes!
