Between black and white
By Igor Tzaryov
Darkness is looking on town in illness
With her moony eye, bloody in view.
A raven, aged by the stormy winds,
Is making his house on a steep roof.
Not without reason he is counted as learned –
His feathers all are as black as night.
He is writing on-black with a black form
The evil truth of his predictive sight.
Word is worth to cure and care,
To ascend almost to heavens where God lives;
But may also multiply the grey undead,
As the louse on the poky man homeless.
The raven doesn’t shun the evil,
But doesn’t seek evil from good soul –
It’s s lack of the spiritual feed
Between ribs of a bad word.
We ignore the truth of the aged raven
In our day-to-day vanity.
But the words, as the stigmates treaded,
Hurt the souls by their gravity.
And winter, driving round the roofs,
Skates along the roads easy,
And on-white writes with a white lug
Her black, so black obituaries.
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