39 Lomonossov St., Kiev 252101, Ukraine
A horde of weary eyes
at the false fountain of youth
in demo against
the fading of the majestic night;
their hushed voice vibrates against
my seat, as I enjoy the skyline
while the silver moon, secretly
sips my ice-cold compote.
That strange looks
somehow touch
my own sadness, humming
with the cold breeze of gentle wind
and the yelling of sweet Babushka;
I know…and they know, she is right;
it’s time for all, to come to term
with her final whistle.
She’s the night watcher. Her gate
of ephemeral solitude,
is soon to be locked; no other entrance,
unless one takes the risk, creeping
like vine to reach the terrace;
but it isn’t easy, ‘cos yesterday morn
crushed eyes blocked the doorway
that made Babushka scream, for help.
Thou, I never gave her headaches;
she’s really worried seeing me
on the edge
of the rooftop, while
reading Pushkin, as the squadron
of night worshippers, whining
at the false fountain of youth,
‘cos of unfinished home-works.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2007
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