We live the way each trice gets less
From Azure’s hue and from its ray,
And my life’s rye-coloured shirt’s
Broider becomes a tow grey.
There pale the petals of the hour
Of lilies of the light and hope,
Still, stubbornly, I’m looking for
Some thing whose breath does never stop.
And, to all World, I tell the tales,
The tales I’ve never heard before,
To convince it that Aeon still
Does stay awake in our nights’ core!
That the death’s time was never born!
That Life is only truth, at length!
That either of them has a verge,
And solely Love is with no end…
Copyright © Mariam Tsiklauri