Sad King
Somewhere in some country called Magic,
Sad King thinks about me
in the evening, in the morning,
at night and in the afternoon.
I know nothing about him.
I know only: In the Magic country
This King writes a poems about me.
When he writes ,
The ancient candles are on his table...
And again I am angry at the sun
of our White nights.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
