Hope
Oh, the morns – with the freshness
of the birds.
That child, that used to jump
like at hopscotch
(not to step over shadows).
The florescence of the distant almonds …
And those wild sunflowers
I gift to you
(on my palms the wind
is coming down).
Words meaning nothing
as:
“Lazarus, come out!”
God!
Grant Hopes.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
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