Wind clashes
(I)
They slam the door. Ahh!
The wind of the clash is raging,
That way and that way.
The coat groans in an angry song.
Is that the wrath of the gods?
Or just a whim of the game?
The question hangs like a drop of blood
On the edge of the hinge
(II)
Between war and peace –
Thin line like a hair.
The border where the head wanders,
Looking for answers.
Whether in conflict noise,
In the silence of truces,
Can you find peace?
Or just an echo of old wounds?
And the grave row
It declares that the way of freedom
measured by crosses
(III)
The door slams without stopping
Louder and insistent
inactive this way and that way.
Like a clock pendulum,
They number the seconds of fear,
Moments of hope,
But they always come back to square one.
Always.
Hits are being exchanged
(IV)
And I...
I'm on the doorstep.
On 1 side – ruins,
Second – the promise of dawn.
Which way?
Which door to open?
erstwhile they slam without stopping,
The hope of a spark in the heart trembles
Chasing the darkness.
(V)
Maybe...
You gotta halt listening to the noise,
Take a deep breath,
And note that between
War and peace,
They bloom tiny flowers.
Gentle but strong.
Symbols of hope.
possibly they're the key.
To the door that leads
The beauty of tomorrow's peace
Where will we live...
