 |
| pic. source: google |
Hey!
We rip you off every time,
Your
slender curve on the top,
And
think that we’re drenched
In
a mood of whim and whimper a top.
Enduring
patiently every burden –
Of
fiery anger, tragic tears,
Mourning
moments, churning hours –
Thee
art the easy martyrs.
The
happiest ripen sun on the zenith,
Manicuring
dancing clouds,
That
shy moon every bright night out,
Have
glorified thy company.
Breeze.
Oh! Dear genteel guest,
When
you cozily enroll to share,
The
intoxicating fragrance,
Usual,
the moment pleases, not a rare.
Dearly
we do measure your shape,
In
the cup we inherit, and pour into
You
nude your colors through the edges,
Half
you are filled, half you call into.
Ere
the cups are held into the air!
Tossing
them in the name of wealth and notions,
Remaining
space, you immediately embrace
Smiles,
tears and charging with burning emotions.
Lucidly
ironic! Dear bottles, we are,
As
you are emptied, we are filled in,
You
lose thyself, we earn instead,
Contrary
though, the relations martyrs build in.
Solitary
or social, let any the cause be,
Martyr
you are – Grecian or not the jar
You
dry in mouths, swollen the hearts be,
Thrown
you – grown us, we stand afar!!
Finally,
be it Copenhagen or in Minsk,
We
ingloriously glorify you under the sink,
Swaying
the curves – of body and talks –
In
a wild trance, morrow to rest and think.
Post a Comment