вторник, 20 мая 2014 г.

My Homeland

My Homeland


Quiet. Too quiet. Random cars.
I can hear a train thumping in the distance,
and the staring, unblinking stars
are my only witnesses.

My balcony is my cell, my prison,
and the way to freedom where I breath smoke,
every night here is a self-treason.
I'm a lonely criminal, but a lenient judge.

These several feet under open sky
have been my country for so long
that here is where I want to die
now, or after a cup of tea.

Wars happen here, blood feuds:
reason fights against heart.
Gifting evils, trading goods,
I am the only citizen.

The country is torn apart
between what I do and what I wish I'd done,
reign is a tricky art
that I am no good at.

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