The disease of the withered soul
It's three in the morning - the grave silence breaks my soul,
the glass on the coffee table is empty,
obliviously I water my soul, it will bloom too.
Some birds are chirping in my chest - they sound like cuckoos.
Old stories bequeath the saying that when they cry,
they shed tears that heal all diseases.
Copyright © Helena Plahcinski | Year Posted 2023
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