Solitude
Stop thy mutterings, O Poet and send your verses to exile,
Night and day are bonded together in a chain of calendar,
Shades and colours of twilight dance to imageless rapture.
Endless fretful hours unveil
That sky is somewhere beyond distant thunder,
Horizon is vanished, nowhere to find,
Air is drowned in foggy bind
For a restive spirit to wonder.
The blood in veins flow
Soundless like the cold autumn dew,
And trembling inside the heart grew few,
As there are no images to glow.
Soul seeks shelter in solitude away from the crowd,
Thoughts do not spread wings to fly.
The meadow without horizon beneath the sky
A quiet place for any poetic verses to be abound.
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